UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022229330 


A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 

AND 

UNDERWOODS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/childsgardenofveOOs 


THE  POET 
Robert  Lor  is  Stevenson  in  his  most  characteristic  pose  and  in 
his  most  characteristic  attire.  .The  velvet  jacket,  the  long 
fall  of  hair,  and  the  slenderness  of  frame  shown  in  this 
photograph  have  been  made  much  of  in  all  impressions  and 
sketches  of  the  man 


A  Child's 
Garden  of  Verses 

AND 

Underwoods 

By 
ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

With  Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
by  Alexander  Harvey 


New  York 

Wm.  H.  Wise  &  Co. 

1929 


Cofveight,  rgo6 

Bx 

CURRENT  LITERATURE  PUBLISHING  CU 


CONTENTS 
PARTI— A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 

PAGE 

To  Alison  Cunningham 5 

Bed  in  Summer 7 

A  Thought     8 

At  the  Sea-side 9 

Young  Night  Thought 10 

Whole  Duty  of  Children       ....  u 

Rain          12 

Pirate  Story ,  13 

Foreign  Lands         .......  15 

Windy  Nights „     .  16 

Travel            17 

Singing           .          19 

Looking  Forward         20 

A  Good  Play 21 

Where  Go  the  Boats?      .     .     .     .     .  22 

Auntie's  Skirts        .......  23 

The  Land  of  Counterpane     ....  24 

The  Land  of  Nod *     .  25 

My  Shadow         c  26 


CONTENTS 

PAG* 

System           28 

A  Good  Bcy        ........  29 

Escape  at  Bedtime 30 

Marching  Song        31 

The  Cow        32 

Happy  Thought 33 

The  Wind 34 

Keepsake  Mill        .......  35 

Good  and  Bad  Children 37 

Foreign  Children 38 

The  Sun's  Travels        39 

The  Lamplighter 40 

My  Bed  is  a  Boat 42 

The  Moon 43 

The  Swing 44 

Time  to  Rise 45 

Looking-glass  River      ......  46 

Fairy  Bread 48 

From  a  Railway  Carriage     ....  49 

Winter -Time 50 

The  Hayloft 51 

Farewell  to  the  Farm 52 

Northwest  Passage 53 

I.  Good-night. 
II.  Shadow  March, 
III.   In  Port. 


CONTENTS 

THE  CHILD  ALONE 

PAGk 

The  Unseen  Playmate      .....  5^ 

My  Ship  and  I 61 

My  Kingdom        63 

Picture-books  in  Winter      ....  65 

My  Treasures 66 

Block  City 68 

The  Land  of  Story-books       ....  70 

Armies  in  the  Fire 72 

The  Little  Land     .           73 

GARDEN  DAYS 

Night  and  Day        79 

Nest  Eggs 81 

The  Flowers 83 

Summer  Sun        84 

The  Dumb  Soldier -  85 

Autumn  Fires 87 

The  Gardener 88 

Historical  Associations 89 

ENVOYS 

To  Willie  and  Henrietta       ...  93. 

To  My  Mother 94 

To  Auntie 95 

To  Minnie 96 

To  My  Name-child        ......  99 

To  Any  Reader        101 

vii 


CONTENTS 

PART  II  — UNDERWOODS 

BOOK  I  —  In  English 

I     Envoy  pag« 

Go,  little  book 15 

II    A  Song  of  the  Road 

The  gauger  walked          ,     .     .  16 

III  The  Canoe  Speaks 

On  the  great  streams     ...       18 

IV  It  is  the  Season 20 

V  The  House  Beautiful 

A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor  .       22 

VI    A  Visit  from  the  Sea 

Far  from  the  loud  sea  beaches  .       24 

VII    To  a  Gardener 

Friend,     in    my  mountain-side 
demesne 26 

VIII     To  Minnie 

A  picture-frame  for  you  to  fill  .       28 

IX    To  K.  De  M. 

A  lover  of  the  moorland  bare    .       29 


CONTENTS 


?AGB 


X    To  N.  V.  De  G.  S. 

The  unfathomable  sea  ...       31 
XI    To  Will.  H.  Low 

Youth  now  flees       ....       33 
XII     To  Mrs.  Will.  H.  Low 

Even  in  the  bluest  noonday  of 
JulY 35 

XIII  To  H.  F.  Brown 

I  sit  and  wait    ....  37 

XIV  To  Andrew  Lang 

Dear  Andrew 39 

XV    Et  Tu  In  Arcadia  Vixisti 

In  ancient  tales,  O  friend    .     .       41 
XVI    To  W.  E.  Henley 

The    Year   runs    through    her 
phases 46 

XVII     Henry  James 

Who  comes  to-night     ...       48 
KVIII    The  Mirror  Speaks 

Where  the  bells      ...      49 

XIX     Katharine 

We  see  you  as  we  see  a  face      .       5 1 

XX    To  F.  J.  S. 

I  read,  dear  friend        ...       52 
XXI     Requiem 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky      53 
XXII     The  Celestial  Surgeon 

If  I   have  faltered  ....       54 


CONTENTS 

XXIII 

Our  Lady  of  the  Snows 

PAGE 

Out  of  the  sun         .     . 

55 

XXIV 

Not  yet,  my  soul  .... 

59 

XXV 

It  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to 

complain 

62 

XXVI 

The  Sick  Child 

O  mother,  lay  your  hand  on 

my  brow        .... 

65 

XXVII 

In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S. 

Yet,  O  stricken  heart 

$7 

XXVIII 

To  My  Father 

Peace  and  her  huge  inva- 

sion       

69 

XXIX 

In  the  States 

With  half  a  heart  .     .     . 

7i 

XXX 

A  Portrait 

I  am  a  kind  of  farthing  dip 

72 

XXXI 

Sing  clearlier,  Muse    . 

74 

XXXII 

A  Camp 

The  bed  was  made       .     . 

75 

XXXIII 

The  Country  of  the  Cami- 

SARDS 

We  travelled  in  the  print  of 

olden  wars      .... 

76 

XXXIV 

Skerryvore 

For  love  of  lovely  words  . 

77 

XXXV 

Skerryvore:  The  Parallel 

Here  all  is  sunny     .     ,     , 

78 

CONTENTS 

t>AGB 

XXXVI 

My  house,  I  say     .     .     .     , 

79 

XXXVII 

My  body  which  my  dungeon  is 

8c 

XXXVIII 

Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I 

declined        

82 

BOOK  II  — In  Scots 

I 

The  Maker  to  Posterity 
Far  'yont  amang  the  years 

to  be    ..... 

85 

ii 

Ille  Terrarum 
Frae   nirly,   nippin',    Eas'- 

lan'  breeze      .... 

88 

HI 

When  aince  Aprile  has  fairly 

come 

92 

IV 

A  Mile  an'  a  Bittock     . 

94 

V 

A  Lowden  SabgaTh  morn 

The  clinkum-clank  o'  Sab- 
bath bells        ....       96 
VI    The  Spaewife 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken     .     .     103 
VII    The  Blast— 1875 

It's     rainin'.     Weet's     the 
gairden  sod     .     .     .      .     105 
VIII    The  Counterblast — 1886 
My  bonny  man,  the  warld, 

it's  true 107 

2X    The  Counterblast  Ironical 
It's  strange  that  God  should 
fash  to  frame  ...  1 1 1 


CONTENTS 

X    Their  Laureate  to  an  Acad-         pass 
emy  Class  Dinner  Club 
Dear  Thamson  class,  whaure'er 

I  gang 113 

XI     Embro  Hie  Kirk 

The  Lord  Himsel'  in  former  days     1 16 
XII    The    Scotsman's    Return     from 
Abroad 
In  mony  a  foreign  pairt  I've  been     1 19 

XIII  Late  in  the  nicht 124 

XIV  My  Conscience! 

Of  a'  the  ills  that  flesh  can  fear  .     128 
XV    To  Doctor  John  Brown 

By  Lyne  and  Tyne,  by  Thames 

and  Tees 130 

XVI     It's  an    overcome    sooth  for   age 

an'  youth   .......     134 


LIFE  OF 
ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

BY 

ALEXANDER  HARVEY 


"  Like  Scott  in  his  ardent  and  impressionable  youth, 
he  was  all  unconsciously  storing  up  the  materials  for 
his  fictions."  —  Edinburgh  Review. 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON, 
prodigally  gifted  in  all  that  relates 
to  tale- writing  pure  and  simple,  an 
essayist  of  such  perfection  that  perhaps  only 
Lamb  is  his  peer,  and  a  poet  who  has  stirred 
the  sensibilities  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  on 
their  most  human  side,  lived  less  than  forty- 
five  years.  He  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on  the 
thirteenth  of  November  in  the  year  1850, 
and  he  died  near  Apia,  in  the  Samoan  Is- 
lands, on  the  third  of  December,  1894.  Had 
Scott  passed  away  at  Stevenson's  age,  as 
has  been  pointed  out  by  Dr.  Copeland,  of 
Harvard,  English  literature  would  have 
been  left  without  the  Waverley  novels.  Had 
Dickens  died  so  young,  "A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities"  would  not  have  been  written.  Ste- 
venson at  forty-four  was  as  promising  as 
Chatterton  at  eighteen,  and  his  literary 
career  may  be  said  properly  to  have  begun, 
according  to  Stevenson's  most  sympathetic 

2  J  xvii 


interpreter,    only  fourteen   years  before  it 
ended. 

The  unostentatious  little  stone  house  on 
Howard  Place,  Edinburgh,  of  which  contem- 
porary guide-books  make  so  much  as  "  the 
birthplace  of  the  creator  of  Jekyll  and  Hyde," 
undoubtedly  planted  in  the  child's  system 
the  seeds  of  that  organic  malady  to  which 
his  untimely  taking  off  in  the  maturity  of 
his  powers  is  traceable.  For  the  first  year 
of  his  life,  indeed,  as  we  learn  from  his  auth- 
orised biographer  and  from  his  mother's  pre- 
cious diary,  the  baby  seemed  healthy.  He 
climbed  eighteen  steps  of  the  stairs  when 
nine  months  old.  He  walked  eight  weeks 
later.  He  was  calling  people  by  their  names 
before  the  average  baby  has  cut  eight  teeth. 
But  this  precocity  went  with  a  weakness  of 
the  chest  and  a  susceptibility  to  cold  inherited 
from  a  sprightly,  girlish  mother  who  thus 
conditioned,  on  its  physical  side,  the  most 
personal  genius  in  our  literature.  He  ac- 
ceded to  his  heritage  of  pallor  and  inflam- 
mation at  the  age  of  two,  when  the  suffo- 
cation of  an  attack  of  croup  seemed  at  one 
time  to  have  carried  him  off  altogether.  It 
was  at  this  crisis  that  '*  Cummie  "  came  into 
his  life  in  earnest  —  "  Cummie,"  the  nurse, 
immortalised  in  the  verse  and  the  prose  of 


"  R.  L.  S."  His  recollections  of  the  endless 
hours  when  he  was  kept  awake  by  coughing 
were  brightened  years  afterward  by  the 
thought  of  the  tenderness  of  his  nurse.  She 
was  more  patient,  he  tells  us,  than  an  angel 
—  hours  together  would  she  encourage  and 
sustain  him.  Many  a  restless  night  ended 
only  with  the  coming  of  the  files  of  farmers* 
carts,  and  the  clamour  of  drivers,  whips  and 
steeds  under  the  window. 

The  delicate  child  was  nearly  three  when 
the  family  moved  on  his  account  to  a  roomier 
dwelling  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  Here, 
to  his  father  and  his  mother  and  his  nurse 
he  grew  into  a  wonderful  child  of  seven ;  but 
in  his  later  years  he  fancied  that  he  gathered 
all  this  time  material  for  those  essays  upon 
which,  as  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  thinks, 
his  final  fame  must  rest.  Within  the  three 
outside  walls  of  his  second  home  —  soon  to 
prove  too  cold  for  the  frail  child  —  he  ac- 
quired an  extreme  terror  of  Hell.  It  was 
implanted  by  that  faithful  nurse  to  whom 
cards  were  the  devices  of  Satan  and  who 
taught  him  to  pray  fervently  that  his  father 
and  mother  might  not  be  damned  for  play- 
ing whist.  All  this  time  the  boy's  health 
was  going  from  bad  to  worse.  He  would  be 
kept  indoors  for  a  whole  winter,  saturating 


his  mind  with  the  Bible  and  the  shorter 
catechism  and  the  writings  of  Presbyterian 
divines.  By  way  of  relaxation  he  made  him- 
self little  pulpits  with  chair  and  stool,  sitting 
therein  to  read  a  service  and  standing  up  at 
proper  intervals  to  give  out  a  hymn. 

"  You  can  never  be  good,"  he  observed 
at  the  age  of  four,  "  unless  you  pray." 

His  mother  asked  him  how  he  knew. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  "  I've  tried  it." 

His  literary  ambitions  denned  themselves 
when  he  was  six.  An  uncle  had  offered  a 
prize  for  the  best  history  of  Moses.  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  never  had  brother  or  sister, 
but  his  cousins  were  always  legion.  All  com- 
peted, and  little  Louis  submitted  a  version 
with  the  rest.  It  was  dictated  to  his  mother 
during  five  consecutive  Sabbath  nights,  and 
won  for  him  a  Bible  picture-book.  From 
that  time  forward,  asserts  his  mother,  it  be- 
came the  heart's  desire  of  Robert.  Louis 
Stevenson  to  be  an  author. 

It  looked  then  as  if  he  might  never  become 
even  a  man.  The  first  attack  of  croup  had 
left  his  system  defenceless  against  succeeding 
invasions  of  gastric  fever,  chills,  pneumonia, 
and  bronchitis.  Many  and  longer  nights  the 
child  spent  awake,  racked  with  the  hacking 
cough  that  never  would  let  go  of  his  body. 


It  seemed  to  him  in  after  years  that  he  must 
have  perished  at  this  period  if  he  had  been 
deserted  in  his  little  crib  to  cough  his  vitality 
away.  But  the  sleepless  nurse  —  who  would 
not  accept,  we  are  told,  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage because  it  entailed  a  parting  from  her 
boy  —  was  ever  at  hand  to  lift  the  sufferer 
from  his  bed,  to  bear  him  in  the  darkness 
towards  the  window,  to  point  out  a  light  here 
and  there  in  some  other  window,  to  surmise 
that  other  suffering  little  lads  were  looking 
for  the  break  of  day.  And  when  little  sallies 
of  delirium  brought  him  out  of  fevered  sleep, 
there  was  the  father,  too,  sitting  by  the  bed- 
side until  slumber  had  come  again. 

Louis  was  seven  when  the  Stevensons  tried 
once  more  to  fly  from  his  disease.  They 
simply  took  it  with  them  as  inevitably  as  the 
family  Bible.  Koch's  discovery  of  the  tu- 
bercle bacillus  was  still  in  the  future. 
The  Stevensons  had  never  heard  of  phthisis 
as  a  bedroom  disease.  So  Louis  was  taken 
to  live  in  the  grey  stone  house  at  17  Heriot 
Row  —  an  abode  solidly  Scotch  in  the  thick- 
ness of  its  walls.  Here,  behind  closed  doors 
and  windows,  the  child  sweltered  anew  in 
his  own  perspiration,  sheltered  as  before 
from  the  air  and  the  cold  in  fresh  exile  from 
the  streets  of  winter.    Bacteriology  had  still 


to  proclaim  that  tubercular  particles  ejected 
from  an  invaded  organism  like  his  into  even 
so  healthy  an  abode  as  17  Heriot  Row  must, 
unless  at  once  devitalised,  dry  artificially. 
In  that  stage  of  culture  they  distributed 
themselves  for  further  invasion  of  the  organ- 
ism cooped  up  behind  the  back  windows  that 
looked  across  Queen  Street  gardens.  "  I 
principally  connect  these  nights,"  he  wrote 
in  after  years  of  the  hacking,  exhausting 
cough  now  as  much  a  part  of  the  history  of 
literature  as  Carlyle's  dyspepsia  or  Milton's 
blindness  —  "I  principally  connect  these 
nights  with  our  third  house,  in  Heriot  Row." 
Thus,  for  some  score  of  years,  more  or  less, 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  grew  to  manhood 
in  an  atmosphere  as  bacterial  as  it  was 
Calvinistic. 


xxii 


n 

*'  Even  at  sixteen  the  boy  who,  in  the  fulness  of 
his  powers,  was  to  write  the  marvellous  description  of 
the  '  Merry  Men  of  Aros,'  had  begun  to  learn  his 
trade."  —  S.  R.  Crockett. 

IT  was  the  dream  of  the  elder  Stevenson's 
life  to  be  spared  long  enough  to  see  his 
only  son  a  celebrated  engineer.  It  was 
a  perfectly  natural  ambition  in  the  circum- 
stances. The  family  of  Stevenson  is  asso- 
ciated as  intimately  with  the  history  of  light- 
houses as  is  the  family  of  M'Cormick  with 
the  invention  and  exploitation  of  the 
reaper.  A  certain  friend  of  "  R.  L.  S." 
happened  to  visit  the  Spanish  main  once 
upon  a  time.  He  was  asked  by  a  Peruvian 
if  he  "  knew  Mr.  Stevenson,  the  author " 
whose  works  were  so  esteemed  in  Peru. 
The  friend  of  "  R.  L.  S."  assumed  the  refer- 
ence to  be  to  the  author  of  "  Jekyll  and 
Hyde."  But  the  Peruvian  had  never  heard 
of  that  firm.  He  was  thinking  only  of  a 
particular  member  of  the  illustrious  house  of 
engineers  to  which  science  is  so  indebted  for 
an  authoritative   account    of  the   principle 


upon  which  the   Bell   Rock  Lighthouse  is 
constructed. 

Had  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  —  to  whom 
this  Peruvian  anecdote  was  a  perennial  joy 
—  been  wedded  to  the  theory  of  adaptation 
to  environment  by  natural  selection  he  could 
not,  as  a  lad,  have  shown  more  docility  in 
charging  his  mind  with  the  lore  of  the  heredi- 
tary calling.  To  his  latest  day,  in  truth,  he 
took  a  pride  in  the  family  lighthouses,  while 
for  many  a  year  it  seemed  that  the  family 
position  as  head  of  the  Stevenson  firm  and 
as  engineer  to  the  Commissioners  of  North- 
ern Lighthouses  must  come  to  him  as  a 
matter  of  course.  From  the  lips  of  his  father, 
Thomas  Stevenson,  the  celebrated  expert  in 
optics  as  applied  to  lighthouse  illumination, 
he  learned  of  the  still  more  famous  Robert 
Stevenson,  his  grandfather,  immortalised  by 
the  Bell  Rock  Lighthouse  on  the  Inchcape 
rock.  Scarcely  less  renowned  —  perhaps 
more  famous  still,  indeed  —  is  the  Skerry- 
vore  lighthouse  in  Argyleshire,  built  by  the 
uncle  of  "  R.  L.  S."  with  the  cooperation  of 
the  father  of  the  same.  "  The  noblest  of 
all  extant  deep-sea  lights  "  is  Skerryvore, 
says  the  Stevenson  who,  although  he  fore- 
swore the  hereditary  line  of  the  family  glory 
for  one  more  shining  still,  exulted  to  his 


latest  day  in  the  Inchcape  beacon  and  the 
tower  of  Skerryvore.  His  most  impression- 
able years  were  much  filled  with  study  of  his 
father's  scientific  volumes  and  inventions. 
Thus,  he  tells  us,  it  was  as  a  harbour  engineer 
that  his  father  became  interested  in  the 
propagation  and  reduction  of  waves  —  "  a 
difficult  subject,"  admits  "  R.  L.  S."  in  the 
paper  he  penned  upon  it. 

Difficult  it  must  have  been  to  Louis  — 
now  grown  too  large  for  the  chilhood  name 
of  "  Smout  "  —  but  he  applied  himself  dili- 
gently to  holophotal  fights  and  louvre- 
boarded  screens  for  optical  instruments.  So 
great  was  the  paternal  influence !  Not  that 
Thomas  Stevenson  was  harshly  dominant. 
He  simply  possessed,  as  "  R.  L.  S."  possessed, 
a  personality.  This  father  of  his  is  lovingly 
described  by  the  son  as  a  man  of  "  somewhat 
antique  strain,"  as  a  blend  of  sternness  and 
softness,  essentially  melancholy  by  disposi- 
tion yet  humourously  genial  in  society.  He 
delighted  in  sunflowers  before  Oscar  Wilde 
was  heard  of,  he  showed  excellent  taste  in 
collecting  old  furniture  and  he  never  grew 
weary  of  "  Guy  Mannering."  Loyal  to  the 
Church  of  Scotland,  morbidly  conscious  of 
personal  unworthiness  in  God's  sight,  keenly 
studious  of  every  branch  of  natural  science 


a  Tory  in  politics,  favouring  the  divorce  of 
any  woman  who  wanted  one  while  denying 
a  right  of  separation  to  the  husband  on  any 
ground  whatever,  Thomas  Stevenson  lav- 
ished every  gift  upon  his  son  —  except  un- 
limited spending- money  —  and  kept  him 
perpetually  edified  upon  the  subject  of 
lighthouses. 

Chills  and  colds,  meanwhile,  interfered 
not  only  with  the  son's  growth  but  with  his 
education.  When  he  was  seven,  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  saw  the  inside  of  a  real 
school  for  the  first  time.  It  was  an  unam- 
bitious but  select  temple  of  learning  for  the 
little,  not  very  far  from  the  child's  home. 
But  every  draught  of  cold  air,  each  wetting 
of  his  feet,  any  breathing  of  foggy  atmos- 
phere seems  to  have  developed  an  ailment 
of  some  respiratory  passage.  These  "  colds  " 
set  up  every  conceivable  infectious  malady  of 
childhood  in  addition  to  whooping-cough, 
influenza,  measles,  and  the  quinsy.  His 
mother,  who  so  early  in  her  wedded  life  be- 
came intimately  acquainted  with  blisters  and 
counter-irritants,  poultices  and  fomenta- 
tions, immured  her  son  for  another  winter 
or  two  in  Heriot  Row.  In  the  summer 
months  he  seems  to  have  kept  tolerably  well. 
But  he  was  then  usually  out  in  the  fresh  air 


where  lived  his  grandfather  —  not  the  great 
Robert  Stevenson,  of  the  lighthouses,  but 
Dr.  Lewis  Balfour,  parish  minister  at  Colin- 
ton.  The  mother  of  Louis  was  a  Balfour, 
and  every  man  who  has  read  his  "  R.  L.  S." 
knows  what  remarkable  people  these  Bal- 
fours  were.  No  less  than  forty  Balfours, 
all  born  and  reared  in  or  near  Edinburgh, 
were  first  cousins  to  Roberc  Louis  Steven- 
son. Most  of  them  were  frequent  visitors 
in  the  home  of  the  clergyman  grandfather, 
who  was,  none  the  less,  according  to  the 
most  illustrious  of  all  his  grandchildren, 
"  pretty  stiff,"  Little  Louis  was  well  into 
his  "  Arabian  Nights  "  once  when  this  old 
gentleman  stole  up  behind  him.  Louis 
"  grew  blind "  with  dread.  But  the  old 
gentleman  did  not  ban  the  book.  He  only 
said  he  envied  Louis. 

Louis  must,  indeed,  have  been  astonished. 
So  firmly  was  the  family  face  set  against  cer- 
tain forms  of  imaginative  recreation  that  even 
Louis's  nurse  read  CasseWs  Family  Paper 
aloud  to  h>m  with  a  consciousness  of  sin 
Cummie  would  ease  her  uneasy  conscience 
with  the  assurance  to  Robert  Louis  that  the 
publication  in  question  contained  no  novels. 
They  were  only  tales  —  family  tales.  The 
little  boy  himself  was  still  so  very  much 


afraid  of  Hell,  and  Cummie,  taught  by  dis- 
concerting experience,  was  so  apprehensive 
that  what  began  as  an  innocent  tale  would 
develop  into  a  real  novel,  that  CasseWs  Fam- 
ily Paper  — "  with  my  pious  approval," 
added  R.  L.  S.  himself  in  maturer  years  — 
was  dropped  forthwith.  But  on  the  follow- 
ing Saturday  the  little  boy  and  his  nurse  were 
likely  to  wander  in  the  direction  of  the  news- 
man's shop.  The  pair  were  then  wont  "  to 
fish  out  of  subsequent  woodcuts  and  their 
legends  "  from  the  open  sheets  of  CasseWs 
exposed  for  sale,  the  ensuing  instalments  of 
these  sinful  serials. 

Constant  anxiety  for  the  health  of  her 
only  child  began  in  time  to  tell  upon  the 
health  of  the  mother.  Mrs.  Thomas  Steven- 
son had  been  a  Miss  Margaret  Isabella  Bal- 
four. She  retained  to  her  latest  day  traces 
of  the  beauty  of  feature,  the  grace  of  move- 
ment, and  the  sprightliness  of  disposition 
which  enabled  her  to  produce  lasting  im- 
pressions of  charm  upon  even  perfect 
strangers.  Her  famous  son's  resolute  re- 
fusal through  life  to  see  the  unpleasant  side 
of  things,  his  willingness  to  be  pleased  on 
every  occasion,  his  fresh  interest  in  any  new 
experience,  were  part  of  a  maternal  inherit- 
ance.    So  devoted  was  the    mother  to  the 


son  that  she  saved  practically  every  scrap 
of  writing  he  ever  sent  her,  she  well-nigh 
mastered  a  whole  branch  of  therapeutics  in 
the  meticulous  care  she  took  in  nursing  him, 
while  the  nature  and  the  details  of  his  innu- 
merable lapses  from  health  in  childhood  are 
set  down  in  the  diaries  she  commenced  when 
he  was  a  year  old.  His  progress  in  the  alpha- 
bet, the  lines  he  recited  at  the  age  of  three 
and  the  domestic  crisis  precipitated  by  his 
first  and  only  meal  of  buttercups  are  re- 
corded with  a  biographer's  insight  by  the 
worshipping  voung  mother.  What  a  sensa- 
tion when  Mr.  Swan  came  to  dinner,  for 
example,  and  Louis,  just  thirty-six  months 
old,  recited :  "  On  Linden  when  the  sun 
was  low! "  waving  his  hand  and  making  a 
splendid  bow  at  the  end.  And  no  doubt,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Graham  Balfour,  the  trick 
of  gesture,  partly  inherited  from  the  father, 
which  accompanied  the  conversation  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  through  life,  "  re- 
ceived  some  of  its  emphasis  "  from  the  elo- 
cutionary precocity  of  the  babe.  It  was 
Cummie's  teaching,  conceded  the  mother 
in  her  diary.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  al- 
ways insisted,  too,  that  his  dramatic  instinct 
was  developed  by  his  nurse. 
**  It's  you  that  gave  me  a  passion  for  the 


drama,  Cummie,"  he  declared  to  her  before 
a  room  full  of  people. 

"  Me,  Master  Lou  1 "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
never  put  foot  inside  a  playhouse  in  my 
life." 

"  Ay,  woman,"  retorted  he, "  but  it  was 
the  grand  dramatic  way  ye  had  of  reciting." 

Even  the  hymns  received  the  benefit  of 
these  elocutionary  powers.  As  for  the  things 
she  read  aloud  to  her  boy,  the  real  mother, 
who  read  with  all  the  expression  of  a  young 
lady  whose  education  had  been  fashionable, 
could  never  make  "  The  Cameronian 
Dream  "  a  reality,  as  Cummie  could.  The 
fourteen  stanzas  of  this  north  country  classic 
first  thrilled  the  mind  of  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son into  unison  with  the  romantic  spirit.  So 
he  has  told  the  world  himself,  adding  that  in 
this  and  other  ways  his  nurse  not  only  dic- 
tated his  choice  of  subjects  in  his  famous 
days,  but  exercised  a  decided  if  not  deciding 
influence  upon  the  evolution  of  his  literary 
style. 

The  boy  waxed  large.  Time  came  when, 
in  addition  to  the  works  of  science  in  that 
austere  nook,  his  father's  library,  he  gained 
access  to  fields  and  fresh  air  in  a  "  garden 
cut  into  provinces,"  bounded  by  flower-pots 
and  lauxels  and  warm  sunshine  and  over- 


XXX 


hanging  woods.  He  had  now  the  run  of 
Colinton  Manse,  abode  of  his  Balfour  grand- 
father with  the  beautiful  face  and  silver  hair. 
Here  the  weak-lunged  Louis  led  the  physio- 
logical life.  Perpetual  irritation  of  his 
mucous  membranes  by  interminable  in- 
halations of  cigarette  smoke  had  not  yet 
begun.  The  characteristic  flatness  of  chest 
which  accompanied  his  other  Balfour  in- 
heritances was  eased  with  oxygen  copiously 
breathed  into  healthier  tissue  that  set  up  in 
turn  a  better  balanced  metabolism.  "  Out 
of  my  reminiscences  of  life  in  that  dear 
place,"  he  wrote  in  subsequent  years,  "  I 
can  recall  nothing  but  sunshiny  weather." 
The  painful  and  the  morbid  were  no  more 
for  a  time.  But  he  often  wondered  what  he 
had  inherited  from  that  old  minister.  He 
had  never  been  made  aware,  seemingly,  of 
that  peculiarity  in  the  chemistry  of  the  body 
which  renders  successive  members  of  one 
family  a  readier  prey  to  the  tubercle  bacillus 
than  the  members  of  others.  In  body,  about 
this  time  or  not  long  after,  he  was,  as  an 
observer  phrases  it,  "  badly  set  up."  Long, 
lean  and  spidery  arms  and  legs,  sunken  chest, 
eyes  so  far  apart  as  to  suggest  a  cast,  and 
movements  sluggish  except  in  play  —  he 
was  ugly.    The  oval  of  the  b'ow,  the  soft 


brown  eyes,  the  smile  haunting  the  thick 
lips  and  the  lankness  of  cheek  combined 
to  form  the  typically  tuberculous  counte- 
nance. 

His  own  health  and  that  of  his  mother 
led  to  a  first-hand  acquaintance  with  the 
continent  of  Europe  that  began  when  Louis 
entered  his  teens  and  became  very  intimate 
before  many  years.  His  haphazard  schooling 
and  his  desultory  travel  gave  him  an  ulti- 
mate mastery  of  French,  familiarity  with 
German,  much  Latin,  no  particular  Greek 
and  an  unorganised  intellectual  ferment  in 
his  brain  of  all  that  he  had  read  and  dreamed. 
With  this  material  he  began  to  build  a  style, 
taking  for  foundation  the  English  of  the 
Covenanting  writers  read  to  him  by  Cummie. 
His  interest  in  his  father's  lighthouses  went 
with  a  firmer  determination  than  ever  to  be 
an  author.  Hot  upon  the  history  of  Moses 
had  come  his  history  of  Joseph  produced 
without  collaborators  at  the  age  of  seven. 
Then  appeared  a  small  book  of  travels  in 
the  handwriting  of  his  mother,  to  whom  he 
dictated  the  work.  He  was  thirteen  when  he 
completed  a  description  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Peebles  and  when  he  was  fourteen  he 
could  rhyme.  So  says  his  official  biographer, 
who  refers  us  to  the  libretto  of  an  opera  en- 


titled  "  The  Baneful  Potato,"  never  in  print. 
At  his  last  school  and  in  his  home  circle  he 
was  always  starting  magazines  of  the  illus- 
trated monthly  variety,  devoted  to  fiction, 
poetry,  ethics  and  the  leading  events  of  hu- 
man history  from  the  creation  to  date.  He 
was  now  on  the  highroad  to  fiction,  which 
took  the  form  of  a  historical  romance  based 
upon  that  classical  event  in  Covenanting 
annals,  the  Pentland  rising  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

The  parental  Stevenson  began  at  this 
point  to  divert  his  attention  from  the  lumi- 
nous field  of  his  parabolic  reflectors  to  those 
sterile  regions  of  fancy  and  imagination  in 
which  his  child  was  running  riot.  He  as- 
sured his  son  that  in  "  making  a  story  "  of 
the  Pentland  rising  he  had  spoiled  a  good 
thing.  Louis,  now  shooting  up  into  a  youth 
of  sixteen,  was  so  much  under  the  spell  of 
the  paternal  personality,  that  he  set  about 
the  transformation  of  his  romance  into  a 
history.  Such  submission  did  much  to  re- 
store the  confidence  of  father  in  son,  for  the 
»atter  had  begun  to  be  pointed  out  in  the 
enormous  Balfour- Stevenson  circle  as  "  the 
pattern  of  an  idler."  And  yet,  to  speak  in 
the  very  words  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
in  after  years,  he  was  all  this  time  busy  with 


his  own  private  project,  which  was  to  learn 
to  write.  He  kept  two  books  always  in  his 
pocket.  One  he  read.  The  other  he  wrote 
in.  Whithersoever  he  went  his  mind  was 
busy  fitting  what  he  saw  with  appropriate 
words.  If  he  sat  by  the  roadside,  it  was 
either  to  read  or  to  note  down  with  pencil 
the  aspects  of  nature  before  him  or  to  rescue 
from  forgetfulness  what  he  is  pleased  to 
term  "  some  halting  stanzas." 

Thus,  to  plagiarise  his  essays  still,  he 
lived  with  words;  and  what  he  thus  wrote 
was  for  no  ulterior  use.  It  was  written  con- 
sciously for  practice.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  he  wished  to  be  an  author  —  though 
he  wished  that,  too  —  as  that  he  had 
vowed  he  would  learn  to  write.  "  That 
was  a  proficiency  that  tempted  me;  and  I 
practised  to  acquire  it,  as  men  learn  to 
whittle,  in  a  wager  with  myself."  Descrip- 
tion was  the  form  assumed  by  this  literary 
travail  mainly.  s*  To  any  one  with  senses, 
there  is  always  something  worth  describing 
and  town  and  country  are  but  one  continuous 
subject."  But  he  worked  in  other  ways  as 
well.  Often  he  accompanied  his  walks  with 
dramatic  dialogues  in  which  he,  like  man, 
played  many  parts.  He  would  even  set  down 
tonversatioD  from  memory.    Sometimes  he 

xxxiv 


would  strive  to  keep  a  diary,  but  he  always 
found  it  a  thing  of  posturing  and  of  melan- 
choly self-deception  and  he  always  and  very 
speedily  discarded  the  thing.  Whether  or 
not,  in  maturer  years,  he  followed  the  ex- 
ample of  Anthony  Trollope  in  burning  with 
many  blushes  the  diaries  of  these  puppy 
periods,  the  Stevenson  estimate  of  this 
branch  of  literary  art  has  its  significance  to 
the  student  of  Pepys. 

All  this,  however,  he  tells  us,  was  not  the 
most  efficient  part  of  his  training.    It  was 
good  for  him,  of  course ;  but  he  thought  in 
maturer  years  that  it  taught  him  only  the 
"  lower  and  less  intellectual  elements  "  of 
the  art  he  mastered  by  these  means.     He 
learned  the  choice  of  "  the  essential  note  " 
and  the   "  right   word,"   but,   regarded   as 
training,  it  all  had  one  serious  lack  —  it  set 
him  no  standard  of  achievement.     In  his 
secret  labours  at  home  —  they   had   to  be 
secret  because  of  the  peculiar  environment 
—  he  found,  however,  infinite  profit  though 
infinite  labour.     Did  he  read  a  book  or  a 
passage  that  thrilled  him  with  its  style,  down 
he  must  sit  immediately  and  set  himself  to 
ape  that  quality.     He  says  he  was  unsuc- 
cessful, yet  he   strove  once  more.      Again 
unsuccessful,  he  records,  always  unsuccessful, 


he  will  have  us  believe.  He  got  some  practice 
in  construction  of  sentence  and  in  coor- 
dination of  passages,  some  mastery  of  rhythm 
and  of  harmony,  yet  were  these  but  "  vain 
bouts "  to  which  he  returned  like  some 
village  Hampden.  "  I  have  thus  played  the 
sedulous  ape,"  he  avers,  "  to  Hazlitt,  to 
Lamb,  to  Wordsworth,  to  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  to  Defoe,  to  Hawthorne."  He  did 
not  even  shrink  from  Montaigne  or  Baude- 
laire or  Obermann.  "  Monkey  tricks  "  he 
designates  the  resultant  fragments  of  prose 
and  versification,  "  gouty  footed  lyrics." 
But  he  was  so  very  young !  Even  at  the  age 
of  thirteen  he  had  essayed  impressionist 
sketches  of  the  dwellers  in  Peebles  in  the 
style  of  "  The  Book  of  Snobs."  With  that 
classic  he  had  fallen  in  love  almost  as  soon 
as  he  could  spell.  It  had  burst  upon  him 
suddenly  in  four  old  bound  volumes  of 
"  London  Punch  "  encountered  —  of  all 
spots  on  earth  —  in  his  father's  library, 
among  reports  of  learned  societies  and  vol- 
umes on  polemic  divinity.  Great  was  the 
surprise  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  when  he 
discovered  in  after  years  that  the  Snob  papers 
were  as  famous  as  the  man  who  wrote  them. 
They  had  been  published  anonymously  in 
the  London  paper  and  to  the  delighted  little 


Louis  they  were  necessarily  the  works  of 
"  Mr.  Punch." 

To  Thomas  Stevenson,  immersed  in  the 
subject  of  wave  propagation  and  reduction 
and  prone  to  perusal  of  "  The  Parent's 
Assistant,"  his  only  son's  industry  over  an 
epic  in  imitation  of  Browning's  "  Sordello  " 
or  a  tragedy  in  the  Elizabethan  style  was  i 
matter  of  dubiety.  This  growing  absorption 
in  style  as  an  instrument  of  many  strings 
keyed  to  the  scale  of  tragedy  or  comedy  as 
the  humour  of  Master  Lou  dictated  from  idle 
day  to  idle  day  was  manifestly  inadequate 
training.  The  youth's  light  was  not  to  shine 
athwart  the  shoreless  ocean  of  his  country's 
literature,  but  to  cast  its  blaze  upon  the  boil* 
ing  eddies  and  warn  ships  from  the  rock, 
the  shallow,  and  the  sand-bank.  However, 
as  Mr.  Graham  Balfour  reflects  in  his  biog- 
raphy of  his  gifted  kinsman,  the  family 
capacity  for  its  traditional  work,  though  un- 
deniable, was  "  very  elusive."  It  evinced 
itself  mainly  as  "  a  sort  of  instinct  for  deal 
ing  with  the  forces  of  nature,"  nevei 
being  manifested  with  inerrancy  until  "called 
forth  in  actual  practice."  Thus  the  elder 
Stevenson  evidently  reasoned,  consoling 
himself  the  more  readily  inasmuch  as  the 
time  was   at  hand  for  Robert  Louis    Ste* 


venson  to  see  something  of  the  practical 
side  of  engineering  and  to  work  for  his 
science  degree  at  the  University  of  Edin* 
burgh. 


JHowiii 


m 

*  It  was  part  of  his  genius  that  he  never  seemed  ts. 
be  cramped  like  the  rest  of  us  at  any  given  time  of 
life,  within  the  limits  of  his  proper  age,  but  to  be 
child,  boy,  young  man  and  old  man  at  all  times."  — 
Sidney  Colvin. 

IN  the  days  that  followed  this  seventeen- 
year-old  youth's  entrance  upon  a  uni- 
versity career  he  seemed  to  have  put 
aside  his  ill  health  —  possibly  because  his 
college  life  had  little  of  restraint  and,  as  he 
phrased  it  years  later,  "  nothing  of  necessary 
gentility."  The  crowded  class-rooms,  the 
gaunt  quadrangle,  the  bell  hourly  booming 
over  the  traffic  of  the  city,  the  first  muster 
of  his  college  class  and  the  sight  of  so  many 
lads,  "  fresh  from  the  heather,"  hanging 
round  the  stove  in  "  cloddish  embarrass- 
ment," afraid,  withal,  of  the  noise  of  their 
own  breaking  voices,  made  upon  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  those  ineffaceable  impres- 
sions which  impart  to  all  his  essays  their 
masterly  autobiographical  ring.  The  de- 
lightful sight  of  all  classes  rubbing  elbows  on 
the  same  greasy  benches,  of  "  the  raffish 


young  gentleman  in  gloves "  measuring 
scholarship  with  "  the  plain  clownish  laddie 
from  the  parish  school,"  so  appealed  to  the 
democracy  of  his  being  as  to  be  adopted,  to 
use  one  of  his  own  expressions  again,  into 
the  very  bosom  of  his  mind.  Now  he  could 
devise  that  extensive  and,  as  he  proudly 
proclaims  it,  that  "  highly  rational "  system 
of  truantry  which  cost  him  such  a  deal  of 
trouble  to  apply  practically.  It  was  in  this 
capacity  of  chronic  truant  that  Stevenson 
concentrated  upon  himself  the  fixed  atten- 
tion of  Fleeming  Jenkin.  Old  Professor 
Blackie,  the  most  prodigious  Greek  scholar 
of  his  time,  had  already  good  reason  to  re- 
mark —  as  he  did  when  the  truant  unblush- 
ingly  asked  him  for  a  certificate  of  attend- 
ance—  that  the  countenance  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  was  very  unfamiliar.  But 
Fleeming  Jenkin,  who  had  come  to  Edin- 
burgh as  Professor  of  Engineering  when 
Stevenson's  system  of  truancy  was  function- 
ing with  the  nicety  of  a  parabolic  reflector, 
was  no  professor  to  be  fobbed  off.  He  sub- 
dued the  rebel  by  the  process  of  fascinating 
him.  The  professor  was  fifteen  years  older 
than  the  student,  but  there  was  about  him 
a  "  perpetual  boyishness  "  and  an  insight 
mto  iust  such  a  temperament  as  that  of 
xl 


Stevenson  which  made  them  instant  com« 
rades.  Fleeming  Jenkin  was  meat  and  drink 
to  his  pupil,  confesses  that  pupil  himself,  for 
many  a  long  evening. 

Nov/,  too,  commenced  his  t^plorations  of 
the  Advocates'  Library,  the  great  Edin- 
burgh temple  of  books.  Whitman's  "  Leaves 
of  Grass  "  tumbled  the  world  upside  down 
for  him  at  about  this  period,  he  has  said.  It 
blew  into  space  "  a  thousand  cobwebs  of 
genteel  and  ethical  illusion,"  yet,  as  he  would 
fain  believe,  set  him  back  again  upon  a 
strong  foundation  of  all  the  original  and 
manly  virtues.  Hard  upon  this  discovery  of 
Whitman  came  that  of  Herbert  Spencer. 
But  the  greatest  find  of  all  was  the  New 
Testament  and  in  particular  the  gospel  ac- 
cording to  Matthew.  It  startled  and  it 
moved  him  because  he  made  a  certain  effort 
of  imagination  and  "  read  it  freshly  like  a 
book  "  and  not  "  droningly  and  dully  "  like  a 
portion  of  the  Bible  at  home.  But  in  charg- 
ing his  mind  with  Montaigne,  Horace, 
Pepys,  Shakespeare,  and  the  rest  he  accu 
mulated  that  golden  material  for  talk  in 
which  his  pride  was  always  honest.  For 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  talked  brilliantly 
from  boyhood  and  frankly  avowed  a  con- 
sciousness of  it.  His  vibrating  voice,  his 
xli 


leanness,  his  brown  skin,  long  hair,  great 
dark  eyes,  brilliant  smile,  gentle,  deprecat- 
ing bend  of  the  head,  and  his  trick  of  keeping 
a  hand  to  his  hip  were  blended  into  a  vivid 
composite  impression  of  a  boy  of  eighteen, 
who  talked  as  Charles  Lamb  wrote,  or  a 
11  young  Heine  with  the  Scottish  accent," 
as  the  wife  of  Fleeming  Jenkin  says. 

Yet  was  he  not  to  be  "  drunken  with  pride 
and  hope  "  until  he  happened  to  sit  one 
December  morning  in  the  library  of  the 
Speculative.  The  Speculative  Society,  ob- 
served this  prince  of  autobiographers  in  the 
maturity  of  his  powers,  is  a  body  of  some 
antiquity.  It  has  its  rooms  in  the  very  build- 
ings of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  it 
has  counted  among  its  members  Robert 
Emmett,  Benjamin  Constant,  Jeffrey, 
Brougham,  and  the  great  Sir  Waiter. 
"  Here,"  writes  our  incorrigible  truant,  "  a 
member  can  warm  himself. "  He  can  "  loaf 
and  read  M  and,  in  defiance  of  all  the  pow- 
ers, he  can  smoke.  Behold,  accordingly,  a 
Heine  with  a  Scottish  accent,  a  youth  who 
talked  as  Lamb  wrote,  loafing  in  the  library 
of  the  Speculative  and  proud  of  the  pipe  he 
anarchically  smoked.  Three  very  distin- 
guished students  talked  animatedly  in  the 
next  room.  When  they  had  called  Robert 
xlii 


Louis  Stevenson  in  to  them  and  made  him 
a  sharer  in  their  design  to  found  a  univer- 
sity magazine,  he  walked  on  air. 

The  magazine  emerged,  yellow  covered, 
the  maiden  number  edited  by  the  four  of 
them  in  vortices  of  energy.  The  ensuing 
issue  saw  the  editorial  staff  reduced  to  two, 
while  the  third  number  was  fathered  by 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  alone.  The  fourth 
and  last  edition  —  at  which  the  enterprise 
perished  —  led  to  an  embarrassing  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Thomas  Stevenson,  unwill- 
ingly but  helplessly  induced  to  make  an 
outrageous  remittance  to  the  printer.  It 
was  "  a  grim  fiasco,"  and  while  the  youth 
had  known  beforehand  that  the  magazine 
would  not  be  worth  reading,  and  that  even 
if  it  were  nobody  would  read  it,  its  fate  sub- 
dued him.  He  told  himself  that  the  time 
was  not  yet  ripe  nor  the  man  ready  for  liter- 
ary fame  and  he  returned  to  his  sedulous 
aping  of  Hazlitt  and  the  rest  in  manuscripts 
withheld  from  the  world. 

His  most  dexterous  evasions  of  the  physi- 
cal sciences  were  meanwhile  baffled  by  the 
gentle  suasion  of  Professor  Fleeming  Jenkin. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  could  accumulate 
no  Greek,  but  he  applied  himself  to  statics 
and  dynamics  bravely.     "  The  spinning  of 

xliii 


a  top  is  a  case  of  kinetic  stability,"  say  his 
notes  of  the  professor's  lectures,  and  he  had 
actually  prepared  jottings  for  a  paper  on  a 
new  form  of  intermittent  light.  He  failed 
wretchedly  on  such  distinctions  as  that  be- 
tween the  inflammable  air  obtained  by  the 
action  of  acids  on  metals  and  that  formed 
by  the  destructive  distillation  of  •  organic 
substances.  Yet  his  paper  on  the  thermal 
influence  of  forests  was  listened  to  by  the 
members  of  a  learned  society  in  Edinburgh 
and  even  printed  in  a  fat  and  heavy  annual 
report.  The  young  man's  father,  fortu- 
nately for  his  peace  of  mind,  set  no  store  by 
abstract  science.  He  was  all  for  the  prac* 
tical  side  of  lighthouse  building,  and  accord- 
ingly fell  into  the  habit  of  taking  his  son  to 
assist  him  in  the  supervision  of  harbour 
works.  "  I  can't  look  at  it  practically,  how- 
ever," Louis  wrote  to  his  mother.  "  That 
will  come,  I  suppose,  like  grey  hair  or  coffin 
nails."  But  he  made  an  immense  hit  in 
private  theatricals  as  Sir  Peter  Teazle. 

The  time  came  when  he  must  at  last  tell 
his  father  that  he  could  work  up  no  interest 
in  mathematical  determinations  of  the 
amount  of  strain  on  a  bridge.  This  seems 
to  have  been  a  staggering  announcement  to 
the  man  whose  family  had  made  Edinburgh 

xliv 


a  world  centre  for  that  branch  of  applied 
science  with  which  the  name  of  Stevenson 
will  be  associated  perhaps  for  ever,  whose 
beacons  shone  on  every  sea,  and  whose  firm 
were  consulting  engineers  to  the  Japanese 
and  the  Indian  governments.  But  Thomas 
Stevenson,  after  his  first  outburst  of  natural 
and  profound  regret,  countenanced  the  liter- 
ary ambitions  of  his  only  son,  and  gave  up 
with  a  sigh  his  one  paternal  dream.  Never- 
theless, the  notion  that  his  Louis  should 
grow  into  maturity  without  even  a  nominal 
profession  —  literature  being  inconceivable 
as  the  avowed  calling  of  a  respectable  person 
—  was  opposed  to  a  strict  Calvinisms  sense 
of  duty  to  a  son.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
accordingly  began  to  read  for  the  bar,  sup- 
plementing his  uncoordinated  notions  of 
emphyteusis  and  levitation  with  detached 
Impressions  of  the  civil  law  and  fraudulent 
conveyances.  "  Just  enough  mind  work 
necessary  to  keep  you  from  thinking  of  any- 
thing else,"  runs  one  of  his  jottings  relative 
to  this  phase,  "  so  that  one  simply  ceases  to 
be  a  reasoning  being  and  feels  stodged  and 
stupid  about  the  head."  He  was  duly  called 
to  the  Scotch  bar  when  he  was  twenty-five 
and  at  once  fled  to  France. 


xlv 


IV 

"We  read  his  books  with  the  curious  sense  of  ft 
haunting  presence,  as  of  some  light-footed  Ariel,  or, 
In  more  solemn  moments,  of  a  spiritual  form  hovering 
near  us.  There  is  a  body  terrestrial  and  a  body  celes- 
tial ;  the  celestial  body  floats  very  near  us  in  the  liquid 
atmosphere  of  Stevenson's  best  work."  —  Rev.  W.  /. 
Dawson. 

FULL  of  a  thousand  projects  for  literary 
work,  unwearying  in  the  elaboration 
of  essays,  sketches,  and  tales,  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  had  by  this  time  made  the 
personal  acquaintance  of  such  men  of  letters 
as  Sidney  Colvin,  Andrew  Lang,  and  Pro- 
fessor Masson.  He  had  had  a  piece  printed 
in  Macmillari's  Magazine  and  another  in  the 
Cornhill  just  a  year  prior  to  his  admission 
to  the  Scotch  bar.  An  article  on  Beranger, 
another  on  Poe,  and  others  still  on  John 
Knox  were  finding  their  way  into  the  publi- 
cations of  dignity  to  which  they  had  been 
severally  submitted  by  the  advice  of  his  new 
friends.  Sidney  Colvin  helped  him  with  in- 
troductions to  editors,  "  who  were  glad,  of 
course,"  notes  that  gentleman,  "  to  welcome 
so  promising  a  recruit."    The  head  of  the 

xlvi 


Stevensonian  comet  thus  first  showed  itself 
definitely,  although  with  starlike  littleness. 
It  now  began  to  manifest  its  nucleus  to  the 
delighted  constituency  of  the  Cornhill,  and 
in  due  time  the  scintillant  tail  filled  the  whole 
firmament  of  literature  with  its  effulgence. 
The  Academy,  Temple  Bar,  and  equally 
choice  mediums  for  the  dissemination  of  the 
Stevensonian  brilliance,  were  resplendent 
with  pleas  for  gas  lamps,  apologies  for  idlers, 
and  dissertations  on  falling  in  love.  So  com- 
pelling was  the  blaze  of  style  and  so  novel 
the  point  of  view  that  every  trifle  inspired 
raptures,  and  the  orbit  of  the  latest  luminary 
was  computed  hyperbolically. 

It  was  at  this  dawn  of  his  fame,  speedily 
brightened  by  the  acceptance  of  the  first  of 
his  stories  ever  printed,  that  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  amid  the  boats  and  bathers  of 
the  merry  French  tourist  resort  of  Grez,  met 
the  woman  he  loved  almost  at  first  sight, 
and  whom  he  crossed  an  ocean  and  a  conti- 
nent in  something  like  beggary  to  wed.  Mrs. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  then  simply 
Mrs.  Fanny  Van  de  Grift  Osbourne,  an 
American  woman  with  two  young  children, 
who  had  recently  come  to  France  and  had 
taken  up  the  study  of  art.  In  the  green  inn 
garden  at  Grez,  the  young  author,  just  back 

xlvii 


from  the  trip  that  was  to  result  in  his  first  pub- 
lished book,  —  "  An  Inland  Voyage,"  — be- 
held a  small,  dark  young  woman,  with  clear- 
cut,  delicate  features,  and  endless  sable  hair. 
Not  without  significance  are  his  epistolary 
allusions,  at  this  period,  to  the  delights  oi 
Grez  and  to  the  flow  of  its  pellucid  river 
and  the  meals  in  the  cool  arbour,  under  flut- 
tering leaves.  The  lady  was  sketching  in 
charcoal  the  head  of  her  future  husband, 
although  she  wore  no  widow's  veil.  But  the 
flowers  of  her  first  espousal  had  withered, 
and  she  bore  unwillingly  the  name  of  Os- 
bourne.  Circumstances  connected  with  her 
impending  legal  separation  from  the  husband 
in  California  now  took  the  lady  back  across 
the  Atlantic  to  her  San  Francisco  home,  and 
an  end  was  put  to  this  golden  aspect  of  life 
in  Grez.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  had  now 
a  new  purpose  in  life.  Inspired  as  never 
before,  he  went  on  his  "  travels  with  a 
donkey  "  that  were  to  result  in  so  perfect  a 
book,  worked  at  four  essays  and  a  story  that 
appeared  in  the  Comhill,  evolved  the  first  of 
the  "  New  Arabian  Nights,"  did  a  story  for 
Temple  Bar  and  charmed  the  readers  of  the 
Portfolio  with  hig  "  Picturesque  Notes  on 
"Edinburgh."  Thus  at  twenty-nine  lie  had 
definitely  taken  up  his  life-work,  But  bis  fate 
xlviii 


was  in  California  and  thither  he  was  now 
resolved  to  go. 

Robinson  Crusoe  was  not  more  affection- 
ately entreated  by  his  father  to  stay  at  home 
than  was  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  by  his  lov- 
ing friends.  But  the  Edinburgh  youth  im- 
itated the  mariner  of  York  in  that,  consulting 
neither  father  nor  mother  any  more,  without 
any  consideration  of  circumstances  or  con- 
sequences, he  went  on  board  a  ship.  It  was 
bound  for  New  York,  and  young  Stevenson, 
while  not  a  steerage  passenger  —  travelling, 
indeed,  second  cabin  —  might  as  well,  but 
for  occasional  leavings  from  the  saloon  pas- 
sengers' plates  and  the  convenience  of  a 
rough  table,  have  been  in  the  steerage  out- 
right. He  reached  New  York  in  a  flood  of 
rain,  repaired  to  an  emigrants,  boarding- 
house  on  the  river  front,  sitting  en  route  on 
some  straw  in  the  bottom  of  an  express 
wagon,  and  in  another  twenty-four  hours 
was  speeding  west  on  a  freight  train  archi- 
tecturally modified  to  accommodate  tourists 
as  hopeful  and  as  destitute  as  himself.  He 
reached  San  Francisco  like  a  man  at  death's 
door  to  learn  that  Mrs.  Osbourne  was  ill. 
He  at  once  wrote  "  The  Amateur  Emigrant,'1 
plunged  into  essays  on  Thoreau  and  virtue, 
Decame  lonely  and  unkempt,  and  was  nursed 
3  J  xlix 


by  his  future  wife,  who  had  by  this  time  ob- 
tained her  divorce.  The  far  away  father  in 
Edinburgh  now  relented,  a  substantial  allow- 
ance was  forthcoming,  and  Fanny  Van  pie 
Grift  Osbourne  became  Mrs.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  "  As  I  look  back,"  he  wrote 
years  later,  "  I  think  my  marriage  was  the 
best  move  I  ever  made  in  my  life."  Not  only 
would  he  do  it  again  —  he  could  not  con- 
ceive the  idea  of  doing  otherwise, 

For  the  golden  period  of  his  literary 
achievement  begins  with  this  marriage.  Un- 
til now  he  was  a  brilliant  writer  and  that  was 
all.  Henceforth,  he  ceases  to  drift,  for  some 
subtle  influence  has  brought  home  to  him 
that  the  plastic  art  of  literature  is,  in  his 
very  words,  to  embody  character,  thought 
or  emotion  in  some  act  or  attitude  that  shall 
be  remarkable,  striking  to  the  mind's  eye. 
"  This  is  the  highest  and  the  hardest  thing 
to  do  in  words,"  we  find  him  saying  a  few 
years  after  his  marriage,  when  "  Treasure 
Island  "  had  taken  form  and  substance  — 
and  "  Treasure  Island "  was  the  first 
Stevenson  book  of  which  his  peculiar  public 
ever  heard.  It  was  undertaken  at  a  sugges- 
tion from  his  new  stepson,  and  worked  out 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  wife.  From  the 
eager  schoolboy,  his  stepson,  Lloyd  Oar 
\ 


bourne,  he  had  derived  his  immense  dis- 
covery that  one  of  the  natural  appetites  with 
which  any  "  lively  literature  "  has  to  count 
is  the  demand  for  fit  and  striking  incident. 
"  The  dullest  of  clowns  tells,  or  tries  to  tell, 
himself  a  story,  as  the  feeblest  of  children 
uses  invention  in  his  play ;  and  even  as  the 
imaginative  grown  person,  joining  in  the 
game,  at  once  enriches  it  with  many  de- 
lightful circumstances,  the  great  creative 
writer  shows  us  the  realisation  and  the  apo- 
theosis of  the  day-dreams  of  common  men." 
The  stories  of  the  great  creative  writer  may 
be  informed  with  life's  realities.  Neverthe- 
less their  proper  function  is  to  appease  this 
appetite  of  readers  for  the  right  kind  of  thing 
falling  out  in  the  right  kind  of  place.  The 
characters  must  talk  aptly,  naturally.  The 
incidents  and  the  circumstances  in  the  tale 
must  blend  like  notes  in  music.  The  strands 
of  a  tale  must  be  interwoven  at  proper  inter- 
vals to  form  "  a  picture  in  the  web,"  while 
the  characters  respond  to  a  common  stimu- 
lus at  the  right  moment  until  the  organic 
unity  of  the  piece  speaks  home  to  the  mind, 
and  leaves  an  impression  never  to  be  effaced. 
"  Crusoe,  recoiling  from  the  footprint,  Achil- 
les shouting  over  against  the  Trojans, 
Olysses  bending  the  great  bow,  Christian 


running  with  his  fingers  in  his  ears  —  these 
are  each  ciilrninating  moments  in  the  legend, 
and  each  has  been  printed  on  the  mind's 
eye  for  ever."  Other  things,  according  to 
Stevenson's  exposition  of  his  especial  art, 
we  may  forget  —  the  words  themselves,  beau- 
tiful as  they  may  be,  the  writer's  incidental 
observations,  charmed  they  never  so  well  at 
the  moment  of  reading,  but  these  scenes, 
these  epoch-making  scenes,  "  which  put  the 
last  mark  of  truth  upon  a  story  and  fill  up, 
at  one  blow,  our  capacity  for  sympathetic 
pleasure,"  go  to  the  making  of  our  lives  as 
truly  as  the  prayers  said  at  a  mother's  knee, 
or  the  ecstasy  of  a  first  requited  love. 

Until  now  we  have  had  a  Stevenson  well 
content  to  write  about  some  inn  at  Burford, 
or  to  describe  scenery  with  the  word- painters, 
the  "  sedulous  ape  "  living  with  words  for 
no  ulterior  purpose  than  practice,  "  as  men 
learn  to  whittle."  Now,  he  longs  to  seize 
on  the  heart  of  every  suggestion,  and  to  make 
a  country  famous  with  a  legend.  "  It  is  one 
thing  to  remark  and  to  dissect,  with  the 
most  cutting  logic,  the  complications  of  life 
and  of  the  human  spirit ;  it  is  quite  another 
to  give  them  body  and  blood  in  the  story  of 
Ajax  or  of  Hamlet."  The  first  is  literature, 
of  course.    But  the  last  is  art  as  well,  and  to 


that  art  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  now  began 
to  apply  his  fitting  key  of  words,  long  prac- 
tised on  the  literary  scales.  He  sat  down  at 
last,  legions  of  words  swimming  to  his  call, 
dozens  of  turns  of  phrase  simultaneously 
bidding  for  his  choice,  and  he  himself  know* 
ing  what  he  wanted  to  do  and  able  to  do  it. 
He  had  now  figuratively  as  well  as  literally 
taken  home  his  bride.  The  parental  bless- 
ing had  been  bestowed.  Three  years  after 
his  marriage  he  had  settled  himself  in  the 
south  of  France  in  a  cottage  on  the  slope  of 
a  hill,  his  wife  inspiring  him,  and  his  stepson 
becoming  the  most  enthusiastic  of  literary 
constituents.  But  his  nervous  system  had 
begun  to  be  affected  through  the  toxins 
evolved  by  the  bacillus  of  his  disease,  Rob- 
ert Louis  Stevenson's  greatest  work  would 
well  illustrate,  in  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Huber, 
the  theory  that  the  quality  of  a  great  man's 
genius,  if  he  be  consumptive,  is  affected  by 
his  disease.  There  is  surely,  contends  this 
expert,  "  some  sort  of  literary  pathology  '* 
manifested  in  the  transformation  of  Dr. 
JekylPs  benign  face  into  the  features  of  his 
devil  nature ;  in  that  man  who  feigned  death 
("The  Master  of  Ballantrae ")  and  was 
buried,  remaining  months  under  ground, 
only,  when  exhumed,  to  gasp  with  the  spark 
liii 


of  animation  that  yet  remained ;  in  the  blind 
pirate  of  "  Treasure  Island,"  he  of  the  quick, 
sharp  footfalls  that  drew  near  and  ever 
nearer  the  inn  where  lay  the  trembling  boy. 
Certainly,  the  bacillus  of  Stevenson's  tuber- 
culosis clung  cruelly  to  him,  notwithstand- 
ing his  devotion  to  fresh  air.  That  chimeri- 
cal terror  of  unpolluted  oxygen,  which  made 
so  many  of  our  fathers  close  their  windows, 
list  their  doors  and  seal  themselves  up  with 
their  own  poisonous  exhalations,  had  aroused 
Stevenson  to  protest  in  "  The  Amateur  Emi- 
grant." By  the  time  "  The  Strange  Case  of 
Dr.  Jekyli  and  Mr.  Hyde  "  had  demon- 
strated to  whole  continents  of  readers  that 
whomsoever  else  they  read  they  must  read 
Stevenson  too,  his  physician  was  insisting 
upon  a  complete  change  of  climate.  The 
thoughts  of  the  now  illustrious  romancer 
and  essayist  seem  to  have  been  more  than 
ever  tinged  with  the  Celtic  melancholy  he  at- 
tributes to  his  own  father  in  the  memorial 
sketch  he  gave  to  the  world  at  this  time. 
Thomas  Stevenson  died  when  "  Jekyli  and 
Hyde  "  was  thrilling  the  world  and  in  another 
twelvemonth  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was 
settled  once  more  in  the  United  States  at  an 
elevation  in  the  Adirondacks  where  a  sana- 
torium had  been  lately  set  up  for  consump- 


tive  patients.  So  greatly  had  his  lot  altered 
since  he  rode  through  New  York  in  an  ex- 
press wagon  that  he  now  refused  an  offer  of 
ten  thousand  dollars  from  the  New  York 
World  for  an  article  every  week  for  a  year, 
"  Kidnapped  "  was  already,  by  its  vogue, 
vindicating  Stevenson's  theory  that  a  writer 
of  his  school  may,  "  for  the  sake  of  circum- 
stantiation  and  because  he  is  himself  more 
or  less  grown  up,"  admit  character  into  his 
design  within  certain  limits, —  but  only  with- 
in certain  limits.  To  add  more  traits  than 
those  of  the  heroes  and  the  heroines  of  the 
Stevenson  fictions  were,  in  their  creator's 
language,  to  be  too  clever,  to  stultify  the 
tale,  "  to  start  the  hare  of  moral  or  intellec- 
tual interest  while  we  are  running  the  fox 
of  material  interest,"  to  commit  the  blunder 
of  the  playwright  whose  very  lackeys  must 
be  men  of  wit.  Certain  readers,  confessed 
Stevenson  in  one  of  the  expositions  of  his  own 
art  which  interpret  him  so  finely,  are  apt 
to  look  somewhat  down  on  incident.  "  It 
is  thought  clever  to  write  a  novel  with  no 
story  at  all  or  at  least  with  a  very  dull  one." 
Yet  without  Rawdon  Crawley's  blow  to  knit 
it  all  together,  "  Vanity  Fair  "  could  never 
have  been  made  the  work  of  art  it  is.  "  That 
scene  is  the  chief  ganglion  of  the  tale."    Not 


character,  but  incident  —  that  woos  us.  In- 
cident plunges  us  into  the  tale,  submerging 
us  in  it  with  the  force  of  a  billow  —  we  forget 
the  characters  and  push  even  the  hero  aside. 
Narrative,  action,  something  doing  at  the 
right  time,  in  the  right  place !  "  Certain 
dank  gardens  cry  aloud  for  a  murder;  cer- 
tain old  houses  demand  to  be  haunted ;  cer- 
tain coasts  are  set  apart  for  shipwreck.' ' 
Hence  the  artistic  effort  of  Stevenson  was 
everywhere  and  ever  to  fit  the  proper  story 
to  the  proper  place,  and  never  to  equip  a 
puppet  with  a  "  character,"  as  the  lady 
novelist,  dealing  in  "  situations,"  does  some- 
how. For  he  had  not  that  incorrigible  aber- 
ration of  taste  prompting  a  spirit  of  criticism 
yet  more  perverse  to  complain  that  the  author 
of  "  The  Master  of  Ballantrae "  has  no 
psychology  of  woman.  The  "  tortured 
real,"  to  purloin  from  the  gem  casket  of 
Miss  Elisabeth  Luther  Cary's  rhetoric*  "  is 
corrected  by  the  calm  ideal "  in  such  a  de- 
scription as  that  of  Newmarch  in  Mr.  Henry 
James's  novel  of  "  The  Sacred  Fount;  "  but 
when  Long  John  Silver,  in  "  Treasure  Is- 
land," strikes  the  sailor  square  in  the  spine 
with  his  crutch  we  cannot  —  to  quaff  anew 
at  the  well  of  Miss  Cary's  English  undefiled 
—  expect  abstract  synthesised  beauty  to  hang 
to 


like  a  brooding  angel  over  the  tangled  human 
spectacle.  It  is  well  that  in  "  A  London  Life," 
by  Mr.  Henry  James,  the  witty  expression  of 
Lady  Davenant's  face  "  shines  like  a  lamp 
through  the  ground  glass  of  her  good  breed- 
ing." It  is  better  still  that  in  the  environ- 
ment of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  heroines 
he  defines  a  pirate  as  a  beard,  a  pair  of 
wide  trousers,  and  a  liberal  complement  of 
pistols. 


ivii 


"  Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie ; 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
1  Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be, 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 

And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill.'  K 
—  R.L.S. 

WHEN  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was 
thirty-three,  he  surprised  his  old 
nurse,  "  Cummie,"  with  the  an- 
nouncement that  he  meant  to  dedicate  to 
her  his  first  volume  of  poetry.  She,  he  told 
her,  in  the  letter  from  Nice  containing  this 
news,  was  the  only  person  who  would  really 
understand  it.  "  He  must  have  felt  that  he 
was  doing  a  piece  of  work  altogether  ad- 
mirable," is  the  comment  of  Professor 
William  P.  Trent  upon  this  pretty  incident, 
and,  adds  this  subtle  critic,  "  he  made  a 
wonderfully  successful  book  because  he 
based  it  on  real  experience "  —  he  had 
taken  walks  in  "  A  Child's  Garden  of 
Verses,"  swung  in  its  trees,  peeped  over  its 

Iviii 


wall.  Marred  as  his  boyhood  had  been 
by  illness,  adds  Professor  Trent,  "  it  had 
been  that  rare  thing  in  these  modern  days," 
a  true  childhood.  For  that  one  reason  was 
it  possible  for  him  to  produce  such  a  master- 
piece of  verse  for  the  young  as  that  begin- 
ning :  "  We  built  a  ship  upon  the  stairs." 
"  Underwoods  "  was  a  book  of  poetry  for 
older  readers,  brought  out  simultaneously 
in  London  and  New  York.  It  went  into  a 
second  edition  speedily,  and  thus  cheered 
Stevenson  in  the  gloom  of  his  illness  among 
the  Adirondacks.  "  In  the  verse  business  I 
can  do  just  what  I  like  better  than  anything 
else,"  wrote  Stevenson  to  a  friend.  Yet 
Professor  Trent  doubts  if  Stevenson's  verses 
represent  him  fully.  They  are  sane,  their 
strong  point,  said  Stevenson  again,  and  to 
this  Professor  Trent  subscribes.  They  were 
a  wholesome  and  pleasant  contrast  to  the 
rondeaux  and  delicate  decadence  of  which 
healthy  readers  had  grown  sick.  Yet  many 
of  the  poems  were  the  work  of  an  invalid, 
a  dying  man  in  some  flashes  of  inspiration. 
For  it  had  begun  to  be  evident  to  a  vast  and 
loving  constituency  that  Robert  Louis  Ste- 
venson was  under  sentence  of  death.  His 
health  did  not  improve  although  his  work 
had  never  been  more  brilliant.  His  wife 
lis 


travelled  to  San  Francisco  and  chartered  a 
yacht  for  those  long  cruises  through  the 
South  Seas,  of  which  he  had  dreamed  as  a 
child.  For  when  little  Louis  played  with 
his  toy  ships  at  Cummie's  knee  in  the  long 
ago,  as  Miss  Catherine  T.  Bryce  words  it, 
in  her  "  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  Reader," 
he  always  wanted  to  sail  to  the  far-away 
lands.  "  When  I  am  a  man,"  he  told  Cum- 
mie,  "  I  shall  visit  the  far-away  lands." 
Just  a  week  before  he  died  Cummie,  in 
Scotland,  got  a  letter  from  her  Master  Lou, 
signed  "  your  laddie,  with  all  love,"  and 
announcing  that  he  was  getting  fat. 

The  histrionic  instinct  of  a  David  Garrick 
could  scarcely  have  heightened  the  scenic 
effect  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  depar- 
ture with  his  whole  household  upon  that 
cruise  through  the  remote  Pacific  isles,  which 
was  to  end  after  three  years  of  circumnavi- 
gation in  a  still  newer  and  more  surprising 
existence.  Had  the  Stevensonian  Odyssey 
been  projected  by  an  author  of  mere  talent 
for  the  exploitation  of  his  own  personality, 
it  might  have  compared  not  unfavourably 
with  the  loftiest  flight  of  self-advertising  in- 
spiration for  which  the  late  Phineas  T, 
Barnum  ever  manifested  a  capacity.  The 
more  genuine  spectacle  of  the  greatest  living 


artist  in  the  use  of  English  words,  with  the 
hand  of  death  already  raised  to  strike  him, 
sailing  for  three  adventurous  years  with  his 
entire  household  among  archipelagos  of 
savages,  imparted  to  the  name  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  an  interest  not  less  weird 
than  that  attaching  to  "  The  Strange  Case 
of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde."  His  vicissi- 
tudes were  now  part  of  the  news  of  the  day. 
When  in  the  year  1890  he  fixed  his  abode 
among  the  Samoan  Islands  on  the  hills  over- 
looking Apia  and  for  the  next  four  years 
played  a  prominent  part  in  the  affairs  of  a 
Pacific  outpost  of  the  first  strategic  impor- 
tance, for  the  possession  of  which  three  great 
powers  had  strained  their  mutual  diplo- 
matic relations,  it  looked  for  a  time  as  if  the 
author  of  "The  Master  of  Ballantrae" 
must  prove  as  original  a  personality  in 
world  politics  as  he  had  become  in  English 
literature. 

But  he  had  resolved  to  involve  himself  in 
no  diplomatic  intrigue.  He  strove  from  the 
very  first  to  render  his  presence  a  source  of 
uplift  to  the  natives  of  the  islands  he  learned 
to  love.  His  three  hundred  acres  in  a  moun- 
tain cleft  were  the  setting  of  a  big  abode 
comprising  a  hall  fifty  feet  long,  wherein  h€ 
dined  in  state,  a  great  stairway  leading  to  8 
M 


library  upstairs,  and  rooms  sufficient  to  ac- 
commodate a  patriarchal  establishment. 
Such  was  Vailima,  source  of  the  famous 
"  Vailima  Letters."  And  to  this  Vailima 
period  belong  "  David  Balfour  "  as  we  know 
him,  "  Weir  of  Hermiston,"  and  "  St.  Ives." 
They  sustain  to  the  other  books  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  somewhat  the  artistic  re- 
lation of  "  Little  Dorrit "  to  the  novels  of 
Charles  Dickens  which  preceded  it.  There 
is  evidence  everywhere  of  a  growth  of  power 
distinguishing  the  writer  of  the  highest  genius 
from  the  mere  author  of  popular  books* 
We  see  evidence  of  Stevenson's  new  atti- 
tude toward  his  own  work  when  he  thinks 
regretfully  of  "  St.  Ives  "  as  "  a  mere  tissue 
of  adventures."  In  "  Weir  of  Hermiston  " 
he  cultivates  what  Mr.  John  Kelman  im- 
pressively terms,  "  a  solemnising  and  some- 
times terrifying  seriousness  in  dealing  with 
grave  moral  subjects,"  not  discernible  in 
"  Prince  Otto,"  for  instance,  or,  to  go  back 
to  a  work  suggestive  of  his  earliest  manner, 
u  The  Black  Arrow."  One  might  think  the 
great  performances  of  the  Vailima  days 
inspired  by  the  beautiful  prayers  he  com- 
posed for  his  household  —  an  atavistic  tend- 
ency being  at  work  here  surely,  for  his 
lather  and  his  grandfather  and  his  grea.t 
brfi 


grandfather  held  family  worship  a  thing  as 
divinely  ordained  as  the  appointment  of  a 
definite  number  of  the  human  race  to  eternal 
glory. 

The  climate  of  Samoa,  says  Mr.  Graham 
Balfour,  had  apparently  answered  the  pur- 
pose of  sustaining  Stevenson  in  his  long  re- 
sistance of  disease.  His  great  embarrass- 
ment was  on  the  score  of  expense.  Prodig- 
ious as  were  his  royalties,  his  mode  of  life 
consumed  them  ruthlessly.  But  his  am- 
bitious projects  promised  an  adequate  rev- 
enue for  years.  "  Weir  of  Hermiston  "  and 
"  St.  Ives  "  grew  in  splendour  from  his  pen, 
and  he  had  actually  formed  some  plan  of  a 
lecture  tour  in  the  United  States.  Of  this 
last  project  his  mind  was  full  when  on  a 
certain  afternoon  at  sunset  he  descended  the 
wide  staircase  with  its  posts  flanked  by 
Burmese  idols.  He  made  light  of  some 
presentiment  of  his  wife's,  yet,  while  gaily 
chatting,  he  cried  out,  putting  his  hands  to 
his  head :  "  What's  that?  "  His  last  words 
were  spoken  almost  immediately  afterward: 
**  Do  I  look  strange  ?  "  He  died  that  night* 
Alexander  Harvey. 


txiii 


PART  I 


A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES 


TO 

SUison  Ctmnins&am 

FROM  HER  BOY 

FOR  the  long  nights  you  lay  awake 
And  watched  for  my  unworthy  sake 
For  your  most  comfortable  hand 
That  led  me  through  the  uneven  land: 
For  all  the  story-books  you  read: 
For  all  the  pains  you  comforted: 
For  all  you  pitied,  all  you  bore, 
In  sad  and  happy  days  of  yore:  — 
My  second  Mother,  my  first  Wife, 
The  angel  of  my  infant  life  — 
From  the  sick  child,  now  well  and  old, 
Take,  nurse,  the  little  book  you  hold ! 

And  grant  it,  Heaven,  that  all  who  read 
May  find  as  dear  a  nurse  at  need, 
And  every  child  who  lists  my  rhyme, 
In  the  bright,  fireside,  nursery  clime, 
May  hear  it  in  as  kind  a  voice 
As  made  my  childish  days  rejoice! 

L.  & 


BED  IN  SUMMER 

IN  winter  I  get  up  at  night 
And  dress  by  yellow  candle-light. 
In  summer,  quite  the  other  way, 
I  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day. 

I  have  to  go  to  bed  and  see 
The  birds  still  hopping  on  the  tree, 
Or  hear  the  grown-up  people's  feet 
Still  going  past  me  in  the  street. 

And  does  it  not  seem  hard  to  you, 
When  all  the  sky  is  clear  and  blue, 
And  I  should  like  so  much  to  play, 
To  have  to  go  to  bed  by  day? 


A  THOUGHT 

IT  is  very  nice  to  think 
The  world  is  full  of  meat  and  drink, 
With  little  children  saying  grace 
In  every  Christian  kind  of  place, 


AT  THE  SEA- SIDE 

WHEN  I  was  down  beside  the  sea 
A  wooden  spade  they  gave  to  me 
To  dig  the  sandy  shore. 

My  holes  were  empty  like  a  cup. 
In  every  hole  the  sea  came  up, 
Till  it  could  come  no  more. 


YOUNG  NIGHT  THOUGHT 

ALL  night  long  and  every  night, 
When  my  mama  puts  out  the  light, 
I  see  the  people  marching  by, 
As  plain  as  day,  before  my  eye. 

Armies  and  emperors  and  kings, 
All  carrying  different  kinds  of  things, 
And  marching  in  so  grand  a  way, 
You  never  saw  the  like  by  day. 

So  fine  a  show  was  never  seen 
At  the  great  circus  on  the  green; 
For  every  kind  of  beast  and  man 
Is  marching  in  that  caravan. 

At  first  they  move  a  little  slow, 
But  still  the  faster  on  they  go, 
And  still  beside  them  close  I  keep 
Until  we  reach  the  town  of  Sleep. 


WHOLE  DUTY  OF  CHILDREN 

A  CHILD  should  always  say  what's  true 
And  speak  when  he  is  spoken  to, 
And  behave  mannerly  at  table; 
At  least  as  far  as  he  is  able. 


RAIN 

THE  rain  is  raining  all  around, 
It  falls  on  field  and  tree. 
It  rains  on  the  umbrellas  here, 
And  on  the  ships  at  sea. 


x* 


PIRATE  STORY 

THREE  of  us  afloat  in  the  meadow  by 
the  swing, 
Three  of  us  aboard  in  the  basket  on  the 
lea. 
Winds  are  in  the  air,  they  are  blowing  in 
the  spring, 
And  waves  are  on  the  meadow  like  the 
waves  there  are  at  sea. 


Where  shall  we  adventure,  to-day  that  we're 
afloat, 
Wary  of  the  weather  and  steering  by  a 
star? 
Shall  it  be  to  Africa,  a-steering  of  the  boat, 
To  Providence,  or  Babylon,  or  off  to  Mala- 
bar? 


Hi!  but  here's  a  squadron  a-rowing  on  the 
sea  — 
Cattle  on  the  meadow  a-charging  with  2 
roar! 

'3 


Quick,  and  we'll  escape  them,  they're  as 
mad  as  they  can  be, 
The  wicket  is  the  harbour  and  the  garden 
is  the  shore. 


FOREIGN  LANDS 

UP  into  the  cherry  tree 
Who  should  climb  but  little  me? 
I  held  the  trunk  with  both  my  hands 
And  looked  abroad  on  foreign  lands. 

I  saw  the  next  door  garden  lie, 
Adorned  with  flowers,  before  my  eye, 
And  many  pleasant  places  more 
That  I  had  never  seen  before. 

I  saw  the  dimpling  river  pass 
And  be  the  sky's  blue  looking-glass; 
The  dusty  roads  go  up  and  down 
With  people  tramping  in  to  town. 

If  I  could  find  a  higher  tree 
Farther  and  farther  I  should  see, 
To  where  the  grown-up  river  slips 
Into  the  sea  among  the  ships. 

To  where  the  roads  on  either  hand 
Lead  onward  into  fairy  land, 
Where  all  the  children  dine  at  five, 
And  all  the  playthings  come  alive. 


WINDY  NIGHTS 
\\  WHENEVER  the  moon  and  stars  are 

Whenever  the  wind  is  high, 
All  night  long  in  the  dark  and  wet, 

A  man  goes  riding  by. 
Late  in  the  night  when  the  fires  are  out, 
Why  does  he  gallop  and  gallop  about? 

Whenever  the  trees  are  crying  aloud, 

And  ships  are  tossed  at  sea, 
By,  on  the  highway,  low  and  loud, 

By  at  the  gallop  goes  he. 
By  at  the  gallop  he  goes,  and  then 
By  he  comes  back  at  the  gallop  again* 


TRAVEL 

I  SHOULD  like  to  rise  and  go 
Where  the  golden  apples  grow;  — 
Where  below  another  sky 
Parrot  islands  anchored  lie, 
And,  watched  by  cockatoos  and  goats, 
Lonely  Crusoes  building  boats;  — 
Where  in  sunshine  reaching  out 
Eastern  cities,  miles  about, 
Are  with  mosque  and  minaret 
Among  sandy  gardens  set, 
And  the  rich  goods  from  near  and  far 
Hang  for  sale  in  the  bazaar,  — 
Where  the  Great  Wall  round  China  goesf 
And  on  one  side  the  desert  blows, 
And  with  bell  and  voice  and  drum, 
Cities  on  the  other  hum ;  — 
Where  are  forests,  hot  as  fire, 
Wide  as  England,  tall  as  a  spire, 
Full  of  apes  and  cocoa-nuts 
And  the  negro  hunters'  huts;  — 
Where  the  knotty  crocodile 
Lies  and  blinks  in  the  Nile, 
4  J  17 


And  the  red  flamingo  flies 
Hunting  fish  before  his  eyes;  — 
Where  in  jungles,  near  and  far, 
Man-devouring  tigers  are, 
Lying  close  and  giving  ear 
Lest  the  hunt  be  drawing  near, 
Or  a  comer-by  be  seen 
Swinging  in  a  palanquin ;  — 
Where  among  the  desert  sands 
Some  deserted  city  stands, 
All  its  children,  sweep  and  prince. 
Giown  to  manhood  ages  since, 
Not  a  foot  in  street  or  house, 
Not  a  stir  of  child  or  mouse, 
And  when  kindly  falls  the  night, 
In  all  the  town  no  spark  of  light. 
There  HI  come  when  I'm  a  man 
With  a  camel  caravan ; 
Light  a  fire  in  the  gloom 
Of  some  dusty  dining-room; 
See  the  pictures  on  the  walls, 
Heroes,  tights  and  festivals; 
And  in  a  corner  find  the  toys 
Of  the  old  Egyptian  boys. 


;8 


SINGING 


OF  speckled  eggs  the  birdie  sings 
And  nests  among  the  trees; 
The  sailor  sings  of  ropes  and  things 
In  ships  upon  the  seas. 

The  children  sing  in  far  Japan, 
The  children  sing  in  Spain; 

The  organ  with  the  organ  man 
Is  singing  in  the  rain. 


LOOKING  FORWARD 

WHEN  I  am  grown  to  man's  estate 
I  shall  be  very  proud  and  great. 
And  tell  the  other  girls  and  boys 
Not  to  meddle  with  my  toys. 


A  GOOD  PLAY 

WE  built  a  ship  upon  the  stairs 
All    made    of    the    back-bedroom 
chairs, 
And  filled  it  full  of  sofa  pillows 
To  go  a-sailing  on  the  billows. 

We  took  a  saw  and  several  nails, 
And  water  in  the  nursery  pails; 
And  Tom  said,  "  Let  us  also  take 
An  apple  and  a  slice  of  cake;"  — 
Which  was  enough  for  Tom  and  me 
To  go  a-sailing  on,  till  tea. 

We  sailed  along  for  days  and  days, 
And  had  the  very  best  of  plays; 
But  Tom  fell  out  and  hurt  his  knee, 
So  there  was  no  one  left  but  me. 


WHERE  GO  THE  BOATS? 

DARK  brown  is  the  river, 
Golden  is  the  sand. 
It  flows  along  for  ever, 
With  trees  on  either  hand 

Green  leaves  a-floating, 

Castles  of  the  foam. 
Boats  of  mine  a-boating  — 

Where  will  all  come  home? 

On  goes  the  river 

And  out  past  the  mill, 

Away  down  the  valley, 
Away  down  the  hill. 

Away  down  the  river, 
A  hundred  miles  or  more, 

Other  little  children 
Shall  bring  my  boats  ashore 


AUNTIE'S  SKIRTS 

WHENEVER  Auntie  moves  around, 
Her  dresses  make  a  curious  soundf 
They  trail  behind  her  up  the  floor, 
And  trundle  after  through  the  door. 


23 


THE  LAND  OF  COUNTERPANE 

WHEN  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed, 
I  had  two  pillows  at  my  head, 
And  all  my  toys  beside  me  lay 
To  keep  me  happy  all  the  day. 

And  sometimes  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  watched  my  leaden  soldiers  go, 
With  different  uniforms  and  drills, 
Among  the  bed-clothes,  through  the  hills; 

And  sometimes  sent  my  ships  in  fleets 
All  up  and  down  among  the  sheets; 
Or  brought  my  trees  and  houses  out, 
And  planted  cities  all  about. 

I  was  the  giant  great  and  still 
That  sits  upon  the  pillow-hill, 
And  sees  before  him,  dale  and  plain, 
The  pleasant  land  of  counterpane. 


24 


THE  LAND  OF  NOD 

FROM  breakfast  on  through  all  the  day 
At  home  among  my  friends  I  stay, 
But  every  night  I  go  abroad 
Afar  into  the  land  of  Nod. 

All  by  myself  I  have  to  go, 

With  none  to  tell  me  what  to  do  — 

AH  alone  beside  the  streams 

And  up  the  mountain-sides  of  dreams. 

The  strangest  things  are  there  for  me, 
Both  things  to  eat  and  things  to  see, 
And  many  frightening  sights  abroad 
Till  morning  in  the  land  of  Nod. 

Try  as  I  like  to  find  the  way, 
I  never  can  get  back  by  day, 
Nor  can  remember  plain  and  clear 
The  curious  music  that  I  hear. 


MY  SHADOW 

I  HAVE  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and 
out  with  me, 
And  what  can  be  the  use  of  him  is  more 

than  I  can  see. 
He  is  very,  very  like  me  from  the  heels  up 

to  the  head; 
And  I  see  him  jump  before  me,  when  I  jump 
into  my  bed. 

The  funniest  thing  about  him  is  the  way  he 

likes  to  grow  — 
Not  at  all  like  proper  children,  which  is 

always  very  slow; 
For  he  sometimes  shoots  up  taller  like  an 

India-rubber  ball, 
And  he  sometimes  gets  so  little  that  there's 

none  of  him  at  all. 

He  hasn't  got  a  notion  of  how  children 

ought  to  play, 
And  can  only  make  a  fool  of  me  in  every 

sort  of  way. 

26 


He  stays  so  close  beside  me,  he's  a  coward 

you  can  see; 
I'd  think  shame  to  stick  to  nursie  as  that 

shadow  sticks  to  me! 

One  morning,  very  early,  before  the  sun 

was  up, 
I  rose  and  found  the  shining  dew  on  every 

buttercup; 
But  my  lazy  little  shadow,  like  an  arrant 

sleepy-head, 
Had  stayed  at  home  behind  me  and  was 

fast  asleep  in  bed. 


SYSTEM 

EVERY  night  my  prayers  I  say. 
And  get  my  dinner  every  day; 
And  every  day  that  I've  been  good, 
1  get  an  orange  after  food. 

The  child  that  is  not  clean  and  neat. 
With  lots  of  toys  and  things  to  eat, 
He  is  a  naughty  child,  I'm  sure  -» 
Or  else  his  dear  papa  is  poor. 


A  GOOD  BOY 

I  WOKE  before  the  morning,  i  was  happy 
all  the  day, 
I  never  said  an  ugly  word,  but  smiled  antf 
stuck  to  play. 

And  now  at  last  the  sun  is  going  down 

behind  the  wood, 
And  I  am  very  happy,  for  I  know  that  I've 

been  good, 

My  bed  is  waiting  cool  and  fresh,  with  linen 

smooth  and  fair, 
And   I   must  off  to  sleepsin-by,  and  no* 

forget  my  prayer. 

I  know  that,  til!  to-morrow  I  shall  see  the 

sun  arise, 
No  ugly  dream  shall  fright  my  mind,  no 

ugly  sight  my  eyes. 

But  slumber  hold  me  tightly  till  I  waken  in 

the  dawn, 
And  hear  the  thrushes  singing  in  the  lilacs 

round  the  lawn. 

n 


ESCAPE  AT  BEDTIME 

THE  lights  from  the  parlour  and  kitchen 
shone  out 
Through  the  blinds  and  the  windows  and 
bars; 
And  high  overhead  and  all  moving  about, 
There  were  thousands  of  millions  of  stars. 
There  ne'er  were  such  thousands  of  leaves 
on  a  tree, 
Nor  of  people  in  church  or  the  Park, 
As  the  crowds  of  the  stars  that  looked  down 
upon  me, 
And  that  glittered  and  winked  in  the  dark. 

The  Dog,  and  the  Plough,  and  the  Hunter, 
and  all, 
And  the  star  of  the  sailor,  and  Mars, 
These  shone  in  the  sky,  and  the  pail  by  the  wall 

Would  be  half  full  of  water  and  stars. 
They  saw  me  at  last,  and  they  chased  me 
with  cries, 
And  they  soon  had  me  packed  into  bed; 
But  the  glory  kept  shining  and  bright  in 
my  eyes, 
\nd  the  stars  going  round  in  my  head, 
3° 


MARCHING  SONG 

BRING  the  comb  and  play  upon  it! 
Marching,  here  we  come ! 
Willie  cocks  his  highland  bonnet, 
Johnnie  beats  the  drum. 

Mary  Jane  commands  the  party, 

Peter  leads  the  rear; 
Feet  in  time,  alert  and  hearty, 

Each  a  Grenadier ! 

All  in  the  most  martial  manner 

Marching  double-quick; 
While  the  napkin  like  a  banner 

Waves  upon  the  stick! 

Here's  enough  of  fame  and  pillage, 

Great  commander  Jane! 
Now  that  we've  been  round  the  village 

Let's  go  home  again. 


THE  COW 

THE  friendly  cow  all  red  and  white 
I  love  with  all  my  heart : 
She  gives  me  cream  with  all  her  might, 
To  eat  with  apple-tart. 

She  wanders  lowing  here  and  there, 

And  yet  she  cannot  stray, 
All  in  the  pleasant  open  air, 

The  pleasant  light  of  day; 

And  blown  by  all  the  winds  that  pass 
And  wet  with  all  the  showers, 

She  walks  among  the  meadow  grass 
And  eats  the  meadow  flowers. 


HAPPY  THOUGHT 

THE  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of 
things, 
I'm  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings 


THE  WIND 

I  SAW  you  toss  the  kites  on  high 
And  blow  the  birds  about  the  sky; 
And  all  around  I  heard  you  pass, 
Like  ladies'  skirts  across  the  grass  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song  I 

I  saw  the  different  things  you  did, 
But  always  you  yourself  you  hid. 
I  felt  you  push,  I  heard  you  call, 
I  could  not  see  yourself  at  all  — 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  song 

O  you  that  are  so  strong  and  cold, 
O  blower,  are  you  young  or  old? 
Are  you  a  beast  of  field  and  tree, 
Or  just  a  stronger  child  than  mer 
O  wind,  a-blowing  all  day  long, 
O  wind,  that  sings  so  loud  a  songt 


34 


KEEPSAKE  MILL 

OVER  the  borders,  a  sin  without  pardon, 
Breaking  the  branches  and  crawling 
below, 
Out  through  the  breach  in  the  wall  of  the 
garden, 
Down  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  we  go. 

Here   is   the   mill   with   the   humming  o/ 

thunder, 

Here  is  the  weir  with  the  wonder  of  foam, 

Here  is  the  sluice  with  the  race  running 

under  — 

Marvellous  places,  though  handy  to  home! 

Sounds  of  the  village  grow  stiller  and  stiller, 
Stiller  the  note  of  the  birds  on  the  hill; 

Dusty  and  dim  are  the  eyes  of  the  miller, 
Deaf  are  his  ears  with  the  moil  of  the  mill 

Years  may  go  by,  and  the  wheel  in  the  river 
Wheel  as  it  wheels  for  us,  children,  to-day, 

Wheel  and  keep  roaring  and  foaming  for 
ever 
Long  after  all  of  the  boys  are  away. 

35 


Home  from  the  Indies  and  home  from  the 
ocean, 
Heroes  and  soldiers  we  all  shall  come 
home; 
Still  we  shall  find  the  old  mill  wheel  in 
motion, 
Turning  and  churning  that  river  to  foam. 

You  with  the  bean  that  I  gave  when  we 
quarrelled, 
I  with  your  marble  of  Saturday  last, 
Honoured  and  old  and  all  gaily  apparelled, 
Here  we  shall  meet  and  remember  the 
past. 


GOOD  AND  BAD  CHILDREN 

CHILDREN,  you  are  very  little, 
And  your  bones  are  very  brittle: 
If  you  would  grow  great  and  stately, 
You  must  try  to  walk  sedately. 

You  must  still  be  bright  and  quiet, 
And  content  with  simple  diet ; 
And  remain,  through  all  bewild'ring, 
Innocent  and  honest  children. 

Happy  hearts  and  happy  faces, 
Happy  play  in  grassy  places  — 
That  was  how,  in  ancient  ages, 
Children  grew  to  kings  and  sages. 

But  the  unkind  and  the  unruly, 
And  the  sort  who  eat  unduly, 
They  must  never  hope  for  glory  — 
Theirs  is  quite  a  different  story! 

Cruel  children,  crying  babies, 
All  grow  up  as  geese  and  gabies, 
Hated,  as  their  age  increases, 
By  their  nephews  and  their  nieces. 
37 


FOREIGN  CHILDREN 

LITTLE  Indian,  Sioux  or  Crow, 
Little  frosty  Eskimo, 
Little  Turk  or  Japanee, 
O!  don't  you  wish  that  you  were  me? 

You  have  seen  the  scarlet  trees 
And  the  lions  over  seas ; 
You  have  eaten  ostrich  eggs, 
And  turned  the  turtles  off  their  legs. 

Such  a  life  is  very  fine, 
But  it's  not  so  nice  as  mine: 
You  must  often,  as  you  trod, 
Have  wearied,  not  to  be  abroad. 

You  have  curious  things  to  eat, 
I  am  fed  on  proper  meat; 
You  must  dwell  beyond  the  foam, 
But  I  am  safe  and  live  at  home. 

Little  Indian,  Sioux  or  Crow, 
Little  frosty  Eskimo, 
Little  Turk  or  Japanee, 
O!  don't  you  wish  that  you  were  me? 
38 


THE  SUN'S  TRAVELS 

THE  sun  is  not  a-bed,  when  I 
At  night  upon  my  pillow  lie; 
Still  round  the  earth  his  way  he  takes. 
And  morning  after  morning  makes. 

While  here  at  home,  in  shining  day, 
We  round  the  sunny  garden  play, 
Each  little  Indian  sleepy-head 
Is  being  kissed  and  put  to  bed. 

And  when  at  eve  I  rise  from  tea, 
Day  dawns  beyond  the  Atlantic  Sea; 
And  all  the  children  in  the  West 
Are  getting  up  and  being  dressed. 


THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

MY  tea  is  nearly  ready  and  the   sun 
has  left  the  sky; 
It's  time  to  take  the  window  to  see  Leerie 

going  by; 
For  every  night  at  teatime  and  before  you 

take  your  seat, 
With   lantern   and  with  ladder  he  comes 
posting  up  the  street. 

Now  Tom  would  be  a  driver  and  Maria  go 

to  sea, 
And  my  papa's  a  banker  and  as  rich  as  he 

can  be; 
But  I,  when  I  am  stronger  and  can  choose 

what  I'm  to  do, 
O  Leerie,  I'll  go  round  at  night  and  ligM 

the  lamps  with  you ! 

For  we  are  very  lucky,  with  a  lamp  before 

the  door, 
And  Leerie  stops  to  light  it  as  he  lights  Sf 

many  more; 

40 


And  O!  before  you  hurry  by  with  ladder 

and  with  light ; 
O  Leerie,  see  a  little  child  and  nod  to  him 

to-night  i 


MY  BED  IS  A  BOAT 

MY  bed  is  like  a  little  boat; 
Nurse  helps  me  in  when  I  embark; 
She  girds  me  in  my  sailor's  coat 
And  starts  me  in  the  dark. 

At  night,  I  go  on  board  and  say 
Good  night  to  all  my  friends  on  shore; 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  sail  away 
And  see  and  hear  no  more. 

And  sometimes  things  to  bed  I  take. 

As  prudent  sailors  have  to  do; 
Perhaps  a  slice  of  wedding-cake, 

Perhaps  a  toy  or  two. 

All  night  across  the  dark  we  steer; 

But  when  the  day  returns  at  last, 
Safe  in  my  room,  beside  the  pier, 

I  find  my  vessel  fast. 


THE  MOON 

THE  moon  has  a  face  like  the  clock  in 
the  hall; 
She  shines  on  thieves  on  the  garden  wall, 
On  streets  and  fields  and  harbour  quays, 
And  birdies  asleep  in  the  forks  of  the  trees. 

The  squalling  cat  and  the  squeaking  mouse, 
The  howling  dog  by  the  door  of  the  house, 
The  bat  that  lies  in  bed  at  noon, 
All  love  to  be  out  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

But  all  of  the  things  that  belong  to  the  day 
Cuddle  to  sleep  to  be  out  of  her  way; 
And  flowers  and  children  close  their  eyes 
Till  up  in  the  morning  the  sun  shall  arise. 


THE  SWING 

HOW  do  you  like  to  go  up  in  a  swing 
Up  in  the  air  so  blue? 
Oh,  I  do  think  it  the  pleasantest  thing 
Ever  a  child  can  do! 

Up  in  the  air  and  over  the  wall, 

Till  I  can  see  so  wide, 
Rivers  and  trees  and  cattle  and  all 

Over  the  countryside  — 

Till  I  look  down  on  the  garden  green, 
Down  on  the  roof  so  brown  — 

Up  in  the  air  I  go  flying  again. 
Up  in  the  air  and  down! 


TIME  TO  RISE 

A  BIRDIE  with  a  yellow  bill 
Hopped  upon  the  window  siii, 
Cocked  his  shining  eye  and  said : 
"Ain't  you  'shamed,  you  sleepy-head ?s 


LOOKING-GLASS  RIVER 

SMOOTH  it  slides  upon  its  travel, 
Here  a  wimple,  there  a  gleam  — « 
O  the  clean  gravel ! 
O  the  smooth  stream! 

Sailing  blossoms,  silver  fishes, 
Paven  pools  as  clear  as  air  — 
How  a  child  wishes 
To  live  down  there! 

We  can  see  our  coloured  faces 
Floating  on  the  shaken  pool 
Down  in  cool  places, 
Dim  and  very  cool ; 

Till  a  wind  or  water  wrinkle, 
Dipping  marten,  plumping  trout 
Spreads  in  a  twinkle 
And  blots  all  out. 

See  the  rings  pursue  each  other; 
All  below  grows  black  as  night, 
Just  as  if  mother 
Had  blown  out  the  light! 
46 


Patience,  children,  just  a  minute  — 
See  the  spreading  circles  die; 
The  stream  and  all  in  it 
Will  clear  by-and-by. 


FAIRY  BREAD 

COME  up  here,  O  dusty  feet! 
Here  is  fairy  bread  to  eat. 
Here  in  my  retiring  room, 
Children,  you  may  dine 
On  the  golden  smell  of  broom 

And  the  shade  of  pine; 
And  when  you  have  eaten  well, 
Fairv  stories  hear  and  tell. 


1* 


FROM  A  RAILWAY  CARRIAGE 

FASTER  than  fairies,  faster  than  witches, 
Bridges  and  houses,  hedges  and  ditches; 
And  charging  along  like  troops  in  a  battle, 
All  through  the  meadows  the  horses  and 

cattle: 
All  of  the  sights  of  the  hill  and  the  plain 
Fly  as  thick  as  driving  rain; 
And  ever  again,  in  the  wink  of  an  eye, 
Painted  stations  whistle  by. 

Here  is  a  child  who  clambers  and  scrambles* 
All  by  himself  and  gathering  brambles; 
Here  is  a  tramp  who  stands  and  gazes; 
And  there  is  the  green  for  stringing  the 

daisies ! 
Here  is  a  cart  run  away  in  the  road 
Lumping  along  with  man  and  load; 
And  here  is  a  mill  and  there  is  a  river: 
Each  a  glimpse  and  gone  for  everi 


5J  m 


WINTER-TIME 

FATE  lies  the  wintry  sun  a-bed, 
A  frosty,  fiery  sleepy-head ; 
Blinks  but  an  hour  or  two;  and  thent 
A  blood-red  orange,  sets  again. 

Before  the  stars  have  left  the  skies, 
At  morning  in  the  dark  I  rise; 
And  shivering  in  my  nakedness, 
By  the  cold  candle,  bathe  and  dress. 

Close  by  the  jolly  fire  I  sit 
To  warm  my  frozen  bones  a  bit ; 
Or  with  a  reindeer-sled,  explore 
The  colder  countries  round  the  door. 

When  to  go  out,  my  nurse  doth  wrap 
Me  in  my  comforter  and  cap  ; 
The  cold  wind  burns  my  face,  and  blow! 
Its  frosty  pepper  up  my  nose. 

Black  are  my  steps  on  silver  sod ; 
Thick  blows  my  frosty  breath  abroad; 
And  tree  and  house,  and  hill  and  lake, 
Are  frosted  like  a  wedding-cake, 
so 


THE  HAYLOFT 

THROUGH  all  the  pleasant  meadow^ 
side 
The  grass  grew  shoulder-high, 
Till  the  shining  scythes  went  far  and  wide 
And  cut  it  down  to  dry. 

These  green  and  sweetly  smelling  crops 

They  led  in  wagons  home; 
And  they  piled  them  here  in  mountain  tops 

For  mountaineers  to  roam. 

Here  is  Mount  Clear,  Mount  Rusty-Nail, 
Mount  Eagle  and  Mount  High ;  — 

The  mice  that  in  these  mountains  dwell, 
No  haopier  are  than  I ! 

O  what  a  joy  to  clamber  there, 

O  what  a  place  for  play, 
With  the  sweet,  the  dim,  the  dusty  air. 

The  happy  hills  of  hay! 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  FARM 

THE  coach  is  at  the  door  at  last; 
The  eager  children,  mounting  fast 
And  kissing  hands,  in  chorus  sing: 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything! 

To  house  and  garden,  field  and  lawn, 
The  meadow-gates  we  swang  upon, 
To  pump  and  stable,  tree  and  swing, 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything! 

And  fare  you  well  for  evermore, 
O  ladder  at  the  hayloft  door, 
O  hayloft  where  the  cobwebs  cling, 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything! 

Crack  goes  the  whip,  and  off  we  go; 
The  trees  and  houses  smaller  grow; 
Last,  round  the  woody  turn  we  swing; 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  to  everything! 


NORTHWEST  PASSAGE 

I.       GOOD    NIGHT 

WHEN  the  bright  lamp  is  carried  in, 
The  sunless  hours  again  begin; 
O'er  all  without,  in  field  and  lane, 
The  haunted  night  returns  again. 

Now  we  behold  the  embers  flee 
About  the  firelit  hearth ;  and  see 
Our  pictures  painted  as  we  pass, 
Like  pictures,  on  the  window-glass. 

Must  we  to  bed  indeed?    Well,  then, 
Let  us  arise  and  go  like  men, 
And  face  with  an  undaunted  tread 
The  long  black  passage  up  to  bed. 

Farewell,  O  brother,  sister,  sire! 
O  pleasant  party  round  the  fire ! 
The  songs  you  sing,  the  tales  you  tell, 
Till  far  to-morrow,  fare  ye  well  1 


53 


II.       SHADOW   MARCH 

ALL  round  the  house  is  the  jet-black 
night; 
It  stares  through  the  window-pane; 
It  crawls  in  the  corners,  hiding  from  the 
light, 
And  it  moves  with  the  moving  flame. 

Now  my  little  heart  goes  a-beating  like  a 
drum, 
With  the  breath  of  Bogie  in  my  hair, 
And    all    round    the    candle    the    crooked 
shadows  come, 
And  go  marching  along  up  the  stair. 

The  shadow  of  the  balusters,  the  shadow  of 
the  lamp, 
The  shadow  of  the  child  that  goes  to  bed — 
All   the  wicked   shadows   coming,    tramp, 
tramp,  tramp, 
With  the  black  night  overhead. 

III.       IN   PORT 

LAST,  to  the  chamber  where  I  lie 
My  fearful  footsteps  patter  nigh, 
And  come  from  out  the  cold  and  gloom 
Into  my  warm  and  cheerful  room. 

54 


There,  safe  arrived,  we  turn  about 
To  keep  the  coming  shadows  out, 
And  close  the  happy  door  at  last 
On  all  the  perils  that  we  past. 

Then,  when  mamma  goes  by  to  bed, 
She  shall  come  in  with  tip-toe  tread, 
And  see  me  lying  warm  and  tast 
And  in  the  Land  of  Nod  at  last. 


THE  CHILD  ALONE 


THE  UNSEEN  PLAYMATE 

WHEN  children  are  playing  alone  on 
the  green, 
In  comes  the  playmate  that  never  was  seen. 
When  children  are  happy  and  lonely  and 

good, 
The  Friend  of  the  Children  comes  out  of  the 
wood. 

Nobody  heard  him  and  nobody  saw, 
His  is  a  picture  you  never  could  draw, 
But  he's  sure  to  be  present,  abroad  or  at 

home, 
When  children  are  happy  and  playing  alone. 

He  lies  in  the  laurels,  he  runs  on  the  grass, 
He  sings  when  you  tinkle  the  musical  glass; 
Whene'er  you  are  happy  and  cannot  tell 

why, 
The  Friend  of  the  Children  is  sure  to  be  by! 

He  loves  to  be  little,  he  hates  to  be  big, 
Tis  he  that  inhabits  the  caves  that  you  dig; 
59 


Tis  he  when  you  play  with  your  soldiers  of 

tin 
That  sides  with  the  Frenchman  and  never 

can  win. 
Tis  he,  when  at  night  you  go  off  to  your 

bed, 
Bids  you  go  to  your  sleep  and  not  trouble 

your  head; 
For  wherever  they're  lying,  in  cupboard  or 

shelf, 
Tis  he  will  take  care  of  your  playthings 

himself! 


MY  SHIP  AND  I 

OITS  I  that  am  the  captain  of  a  tidy 
little  ship, 
Of  a  ship  that  goes  a-sailing  on  the  pond; 
And  my  ship  it  keeps  a-turning  all  around 

and  all  about; 
But  when  I'm  a  little  older,  I  shall  find  the 
secret  out 
How  to  send  my  vessel  sailing  on  beyond. 

For  I  mean  to  grow  as  little  as  the  dolly  at 
the  helm, 
And  the  dolly  I  intend  to  come  alive; 
And  with  him  beside  to  help  me,  it's  a-sailing 

I  shall  go, 
It's  a-sailing  on  the  water,  when  the  jolly 
breezes  blow 
And  the  vessel  goes  a  divie-divie-dive. 

O  it's  then  you'll  see  me  sailing  through  the 

rushes  and  the  reeds, 
And  you'll  hear  the  water  singing  at  the 

prow; 

61 


For  beside  the  dolly  sailor,  I'm  to  voyage 

and  explore, 
To  land  upon  the  island  where  no  dolly  was 

before, 
And  to  fire  the  penny  cannon  in  the  bow, 


MY  KINGDOM 

DOWN  by  a  shining  water  well 
I  found  a  very  little  dell, 
No  higher  than  my  head. 
The  heather  and  the  gorse  about 
In  summer  bloom  were  coming  out, 
Some  yellow  and  some  red, 

I  called  the  little  pool  a  sea* 
The  little  hills  were  big  to  me; 

For  I  am  very  small. 
I  made  a  boat,  I  made  a  town, 
I  searched  the  caverns  up  and  down, 

And  named  them  one  and  all. 

And  all  about  was  mine,  I  said, 
The  little  sparrows  overhead, 

The  little  minnows  too. 
This  was  the  world  and  I  was  king; 
For  me  the  bees  came  by  to  sing, 

For  me  the  swallows  flew. 

I  played  there  were  no  deeper  sease 
Nor  any  wider  plains  than  these, 
Nor  other  kings  than  me. 


At  last  I  heard  my  mother  call 
Out  from  the  house  at  evenfall, 
To  call  me  home  to  tea. 

And  I  must  rise  and  leave  my  dell, 
And  leave  my  dimpled  water  well, 

And  leave  my  heather  blooms. 
Alas!  and  as  my  home  I  neared, 
How  very  big  my  nurse  appeared. 

How  great  and  cool  the  rooms! 


PICTURE-BOOKS  IN  WINTER 

SUMMER  fading,  winter  comes  — 
Frosty  mornings,  tingling  thumbs 
Window  robins,  winter  rooks, 
And  the  picture  story-books. 

Water  now  is  turned  to  stone 
Nurse  and  I  can  walk  upon ; 
Still  we  find  the  flowing  brooks 
In  the  picture  story-books. 

All  the  pretty  things  put  by, 
Wait  upon  the  children's  eye, 
Sheep  and  shepherds,  trees  and  crooks 
In  the  picture  story-books. 

We  may  see  how  all  things  are, 
Seas  and  cities,  near  and  far, 
And  the  flying  fairies'  looks, 
In  the  picture  story-books. 

How  am  I  to  sing  your  praise, 
Happy  chimney-corner  days, 
Sitting  safe  in  nursery  nooks, 
Reading  picture  story-books? 
65 


MY  TREASURES 

THESE  nuts,  that  I  keep  in  the  back  of 
the  nest 
Where  all  my  lead  soldiers  are  lying  at  rest, 
Were  gathered  in  autumn  by  nursie  and  me 
In  a  wood  with  a  well  by  the  side  of  the  sea. 

This  whistle  we  made  (and  how  clearly  it 

sounds !) 
By  the  side  of  a  field  at  the  end  of  the 

grounds. 
Of  a  branch  of  a  plane,  with  a  knife  of  my 

own, 
It  was  nursie  who  made  it,  and  nursie  alone! 

The  stone,  with  the  white  and  the  yellow 

and  gray, 
We  discovered  I  cannot  tell  how  far  away; 
And  I  carried  it  back  although  weary  and 

cold, 
For  though  father  denies  it,  I'm  sure  it  is 

gold. 

66 


But  of  all  my  treasures  the  last  is  the  king 
For  there's  very  few  children  possess  such 

a  thing; 
And  that  is  a  chisel,  both  handle  and  blade, 
Which  a  man  who  was  really  a  carpenter 

made. 


BLOCK  CITY 

WHAT  are  you  able  to  build  with 
your  blocks  ? 
Castles  and  palaces,  temples  and  docks. 
Rain  may  keep  raining,  and  others  go  roam, 
But  I  can  be  happy  and  building  at  home. 

Let  the  sofa  be  mountains,  the  carpet  be  sea, 
There  I'll  establish  a  city  for  me: 
A  kirk  and  a  mill  and  a  palace  beside, 
And  a  harbour  as  well  where  my  vessels 
may  ride. 

Great  is  the  palace  with  pillar  and  wall, 
A  sort  of  a  tower  on  the  top  of  it  all, 
And  steps  coming  down  in  an  orderly  way 
To  where  my  toy  vessels  lie  safe  in  the  bay. 

This  one  is  sailing  and  that  one  is  moored: 
Hark  to  the  song  of  the  sailors  on  board! 
And  see  on  the  steps  of  my  palace,  the  kings 
Coming  and  going  with  presents  and  things! 
68 


Now  I  have  done  with  it,  down  let  it  go! 
AH  in  a  moment  the  town  is  laid  low. 
Block  upon  block  lying  scattered  and  free, 
What  is  there  left  of  mv  town  by  the  sea? 

Yet  as  I  saw  it,  I  see  it  again, 

The  kirk  and  the  palace,  the  ships  and  the 

men, 
And  as  long  as  I  live  and  where'er  I  may  be, 
1*11  always  remember  my  town  by  the  sea. 


THE  LAND  OF  STORY-BOOKS 

AT  evening  when  the  lamp  is  lit, 
Around  the  fire  my  parents  sit; 
They  sit  at  home  and  talk  and  sing, 
And  do  not  play  at  anything. 

Now,  with  my  little  gun,  I  crawl 
All  in  the  dark  along  the  wall, 
And  follow  round  the  forest  track 
Away  behind  the  sofa  back. 

There,  in  the  night,  where  none  can  spy, 
All  in  my  hunter's  camp  I  lie, 
And  play  at  books  that  I  have  read 
Till  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed. 

These  are  the  hills,  these  are  the  woods 
These  are  my  starry  solitudes ; 
And  there  the  river  by  whose  brink 
The  roaring  lions  come  to  drink. 

I  see  the  others  far  away 
As  if  in  firelit  camp  they  lay, 
And  I,  like  to  an  Indian  scout, 
Around  their  party  prowled  about* 


So,  when  my  nurse  comes  in  for  me, 
Home  I  return  across  the  sea, 
And  go  to  bed  with  backward  looks 
At  my  dear  land  of  Story-books. 


71 


ARMIES  IN  THE  FIRE 

THE  lamps  now  glitter  down  the  street; 
Faintly  sound  the  falling  feet; 
And  the  blue  even  slowly  falls 
About  the  garden  trees  and  walls. 

Now  in  the  falling  of  the  gloom 
The  red  fire  paints  the  empty  room: 
And  warmly  on  the  roof  it  looks, 
And  flickers  on  the  backs  of  books. 

Armies  march  by  tower  and  spire 
Of  cities  blazing,  in  the  fire;  — 
Till  as  I  gaze  with  staring  eyes, 
The  armies  fade,  the  lustre  dies. 

Then  once  again  the  glow  returns; 
Again  the  phantom  city  burns; 
And  down  the  red-hot  valley,  lo! 
The  phantom  armies  marching  go! 

Blinking  embers,  tell  me  true 
Where  are  those  armies  marching  to, 
And  what  the  burning  city  is 
That  crumbles  in  your  furnaces! 
72 


THE  LITTLE  LAND 

WHEN  at  home  alone  I  sit 
And  am  very  tired  of  it, 
I  have  just  to  shut  my  eyes 
To  go  sailing  through  the  skies  — 
To  go  sailing  far  away 
To  the  pleasant  Land  of  Play; 
To  the  fairy-land  afar 
Where  the  Little  People  are; 
Where  the  clover-tops  are  trees, 
And  the  rain-pools  are  the  seas, 
And  the  leaves  like  little  ships 
Sail  about  on  tiny  trips; 

And  above  the  daisy  tree 

Through  the  grasses, 
High  o'erhead  the  Bumble  Bee 

Hums  and  passes. 

In  that  forest  to  and  fro 
I  can  wander,  I  can  go; 
See  the  spider  and  the  fly, 
And  the  ants  go  marching  by 
Carrying  parcels  with  their  feet 
Down  the  green  and  grassy  street* 

73 


I  can  in  the  sorrel  sit 

Where  the  ladybird  alit. 

I  can  climb  the  jointed  grass 

And  on  high 
See  the  greater  swallows  pass 

In  the  sky, 
And  the  round  sun  rolling  by 
Heeding  no  such  things  as  I. 

Through  that  forest  I  can  pass 
Till,  as  in  a  looking-glass, 
Humming  fly  and  daisy  tree 
And  my  tiny  self  I  see, 
Painted  very  clear  and  neat 
On  the  rain-pool  at  my  feet. 
Should  a  leaflet  come  to  land 
Drifting  near  to  where  I  stand, 
Straight  I'll  board  that  tiny  boat 
Round  the  rain-pool  sea  to  float. 
Little  thoughtful  creatures  sit 
On  the  grassy  coasts  of  it ; 
Little  things  with  lovely  eyes 
See  me  sailing  with  surprise. 
Some  are  clad  in  armour  green  — 
(These  have  sure  to  battle  been !)  — 
Some  are  pied  with  ev'ry  hue, 
Black  and  crimson,  gold  and  blue; 
v. 


Some  have  wings  and  swift  are  gone;- 
But  they  all  look  kindly  on. 

When  my  eyes  I  once  again 
Open,  and  see  all  things  plain: 
High  bare  walls,  great  bare  floor: 
Great  big  knobs  on  drawer  and  door; 
Great  big  people  perched  on  chairs, 
Stitching  tucks  and  mending  tears. 
Each  a  hill  that  I  could  climb, 
And  talking  nonsense  all  the  time  — 

O  dear  me, 

That  I  could  be 
A  sailor  on  the  rain-pool  sea, 
A  climber  in  the  clover  tree, 
And  just  come  back,  a  sleepy-head 
Late  at  night  to  go  to  bed. 


GARDEN  DAY& 


NIGHT  AND  DAY 

WHEN  the  golden  day  is  done 
Through  the  closing  portal. 
Child  and  garden,  flower  and  sun, 
Vanish  all  things  mortal. 

As  the  blinding  shadows  fall 

As  the  rays  diminish, 
Under  evening's  cloak,  they  all 

Roll  away  and  vanish. 

Garden  darkened,  daisy  shut, 
Child  in  bed,  they  slumber  — 

Glow-worm  in  the  highway  rutf 
Mice  among  the  lumber. 

In  the  darkness  houses  shine, 
Parents  move  with  candles; 

Till  on  all,  the  night  divine 
Turns  the  bedroom  handles. 

Till  at  last  the  day  begins 

In  the  east  a-breaking, 
In  the  hedges  and  the  whins 

Sleeping  birds  a-waking. 

79 


In  the  darkness  shapes  of  things, 

Houses,  trees  and  hedges, 
Clearer  grow;  and  sparrow's  wings 

Beat  on  window  ledges. 

These  shall  wake  the  yawning  maid; 

She  the  door  shall  open  — 
Finding  dew  on  garden  glade 

And  the  morning  broken. 

There  my  garden  grows  again 

Green  and  rosy  painted, 
As  at  eve  behind  the  pane 

From  mv  eyes  it  fainted. 

Just  as  it  was  shut  away, 

Toy-like  in  the  even, 
Here  I  see  it  glow  with  day 

Under  glowing  heaven. 

Every  path  and  every  plot, 

Every  bush  of  roses, 
Every  blue  forget-me-not 

Where  the  dew  reposes, 

"Up!"  they  cry,  "the  day  is  come 

On  the  smiling  valleys : 
We  have  beat  the  morning  drum; 

Playmate,  join  your  allies!" 
Bo 


NEST  EGGS 

BIRDS  all  the  sunny  day 
Flutter  and  quarrel 
Here  in  the  arbour-like 
Tent  of  the  laurel. 

Here  in  the  fork 

The  brown  nest  is  seated; 
Four  little  blue  eggs 

The  mother  keeps  heated. 

While  we  stand  watching  her. 

Staring  like  gabies, 
Safe  in  each  egg  are  the 

Bird's  little  babies. 

Soon  the  frail  eggs  they  shall 
'2hip,  and  upspringing 

Make  all  the  April  woods 
Merry  with  singing 

Younger  than  we  are, 
O  children,  and  frailer, 

Soon  in  blue  air  they'll  \y 
Singer  and  sailor. 
6  J  81 


We,  so  much  older, 
Taller  and  stronger, 

We  shall  look  down  on  the 
Birdies  no  longer. 

They  shall  go  flying 
With  musical  speeches 

High  overhead  in  the 
Tops  of  the  beeches. 

In  spite  of  our  wisdom 
And  sensible  talking, 

We  on  our  feet  must  go 
Plodding  and  walkingo 


5a 


THE  FLOWERS 

ALL  the  names  I  know  from  nurse: 
Gardener's  garters,  Shepherd's  purse. 
Bachelor's  buttons,  Lady's  smock, 
And  the  Lady  Hollyhock. 

Fairy  places,  fairy  things, 

Fairy  woods  where  the  wild  bee  wings. 

Tiny  trees  for  tiny  dames  — 

These  must  all  be  fairy  names ! 

Tiny  woods  below  whose  boughs 
Shady  fairies  weave  a  house; 
Tiny  tree-tops,  rose  or  thyme, 
Where  the  braver  fairies  climb  \ 

Fair  are  grown-up  people's  trees. 
But  the  fairest  woods  are  these; 
Where  if  I  were  not  so  tall, 
i  should  live  for  good  and  alt 


S3 


SUMMER  SUN 

GREAT  is  the  sun,  and  wide  he  goes 
Through  empty  heaven  without  repose; 
And  in  the  blue  and  glowing  days 
More  thick  than  rain  he  showers  his  rays. 

Though  closer  still  the  blinds  we  pull 
To  keep  the  shady  parlour  cool, 
Yet  he  will  find  a  chink  or  two 
To  slip  his  golden  fingers  through. 

The  dusty  attic  spider-clad 
He,  through  the  keyhole,  maketh  glad; 
And  through  the  broken  edge  of  tiles, 
Into  the  laddered  hay-loft  smiles. 

Meantime  his  golden  face  around 
He  bears  to  all  the  garden  ground, 
And  sheds  a  warm  and  glittering  look 
Among  the  ivy's  inmost  nook. 

Above  the  hills,  along  the  blue, 
Round  the  bright  air  with  footing  true, 
To  please  the  child,  to  paint  the  rose, 
The  gardener  of  the  World,  he  goes. 

8* 


THE  DUMB  SOLDIER 

WHEN  the  grass  was  closely  mown 
Walking  on  the  lawn  alone, 
In  the  turf  a  hole  I  found 
And  hid  a  soldier  underground 

Spring  and  daisies  came  apace; 
Grasses  hide  my  hiding  place; 
Grasses  run  like  a  green  sea 
O'er  the  lawn  up  to  my  knee. 

Under  grass  alone  he  lies, 
Looking  up  with  leaden  eyes, 
Scarlet  coat  and  pointed  gun, 
To  the  stars  and  to  the  sun. 

When  the  grass  is  ripe  like  grain, 
When  the  scythe  is  stoned  again, 
When  the  lawn  is  shaven  clear, 
Then  my  hole  shall  reappear. 

I  shall  find  him,  never  fear, 
I  shall  find  my  grenadier; 
But  for  all  that's  gone  and  come, 
I  shall  find  my  soldier  dumb. 

85 


He  has  lived,  a  little  thing, 
In  the  grassy  woods  of  spring • 
Done,  if  he  could  tell  me  true, 
Just  as  I  shouid  like  to  do. 

He  has  seen  the  starry  hours 
And  the  springing  of  the  flowers: 
And  the  fairy  things  that  pass 
In  the  forests  of  the  grass. 

In  the  silence  he  has  heard 
Talking  bee  and  ladybird, 
And  the  butterfly  has  flown 
O'er  him  as  he  lay  alone. 

Not  a  word  will  he  disclose, 
Not  a  word  of  all  he  knows. 
I  must  lay  him  on  the  shelf, 
And  make  up  the  tale  myselfc 


AUTUMN  FIRES 

IN  the  other  gardens 
And  all  up  the  vale, 
From  the  autumn  bonfires 
See  the  smoke  trail ! 

Pleasant  summer  over 

And  all  the  summer  flowers, 
The  red  fire  blazes, 

The  gray  smoke  towers. 

Sing  a  song  of  seasons ! 

Something  bright  in  alii 
Flowers  in  the  summer, 

Fires  in  the  fall ! 


&3 


THE  GARDENER 

THE  gardener  does  not  love  to  talk, 
He  makes  me  keep  the  gravel  walk; 
And  when  he  puts  his  tools  away, 
He  locks  the  door  and  takes  the  key. 

Away  behind  the  currant  row 
Where  no  one  else  but  cook  may  go, 
Far  in  the  plots,  I  see  him  dig, 
Old  and  serious,  brown  and  big. 

He  digs  the  flowers,  green,  red,  and  blue, 
Nor  wishes  to  be  spoken  to. 
He  digs  the  flowers  and  cuts  the  hay, 
And  never  seems  to  want  to  play. 

Silly  gardener!  summer  goes, 
And  winter  comes  with  pinching  toes, 
When  in  the  garden  bare  and  brown 
You  must  lay  your  barrow  down. 

Well  now,  and  while  the  summer  stays, 
To  profit  by  these  garden  days 
O  how  much  wiser  you  would  be 
To  play  at  Indian  wars  with  me! 

88 


HISTORICAL  ASSOCIATIONS 

DEAR  Uncle  Jim,  this  garden  ground 
That  now  you  smoke  your  pipe  around, 
Has  seen  immortal  actions  done 
And  valiant  battles  lost  and  won. 

Here  we  had  best  on  tip-toe  tread, 
While  I  for  safety  march  ahead, 
For  this  is  that  enchanted  ground 
Where  all  who  loiter  slumber  sound. 

Here  is  the  sea,  here  is  the  sand, 
Here  is  simple  Shepherd's  Land, 
Here  are  the  fairy  hollyhocks, 
And  there  are  Ali  B aba's  rocks. 

But  yonder,  see !  apart  and  high. 
Frozen  Siberia  lies;  where  I, 
With  Robert  Bruce  and  William  TelS, 
Was  bound  by  an  enchanter's  spell. 


ENVOYS 


TO  WILLIE  AND  HENRIETTA 


i 


F  two  may  read  aright 
These  rhymes  of  old  delight 
And  house  and  garden  play, 
You  two,  my  cousins,  and  you  only,  may. 


You  in  a  garden  green 
With  me  were  king  and  queen, 
Were  hunter,  soldier,  tar, 
And  all  the  thousand  things  that  children  are. 

Now  in  the  elders'  seat 
We  rest  with  quiet  feet, 
And  from  the  window-bay 
We  watch  the  children,  our  successors,  play. 

"Time  was,"  the  golden  head 
Irrevocably  said; 
But  time  which  none  can  bind, 
While  flowing  fast  away,  leaves  love  behind. 


93 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

YOU  too,  my  mother,  read  my  rhymes 
For  love  of  unforgotten  times, 
tod  you  may  chance  to  hear  once  more 
The  little  feet  along  the  floo*. 


TO  AUNTIE 

f^HlEF  of  our  aunts — not  only  I, 

Bat  all  your  dozen  of  nurslings  cry- 
IVhai  did  the  other  children  do? 
And  what  were  childhood,  wanting  you? 


TO  MINNIE 

THE  red  room  with  the  giant  bed 
Where  none  but  elders  laid  their  head 
The  little  room  where  you  and  I 
Did  for  awhile  together  lie 
And,  simple  suitor,  I  your  hand 
In  decent  marriage  did  demand; 
The  great  day  nursery,  best  of  all, 
With  pictures  pasted  on  the  wall 
And  leaves  upon  the  blind  — 
A  pleasant  room  wherein  to  wake 
And  hear  the  leafy  garden  shake 
And  rustle  in  the  wind  — 
And  pleasant  there  to  lie  in  bed 
And  see  the  pictures  overhead  — 
The  wars  about  Sebastopol, 
The  grinning  guns  along  the  wall, 
The  daring  escalade, 
The  plunging  ships,  the  bleating  sheep, 
The  happy  children  ankle-deep 
And  laughing  as  they  wade: 
All  these  are  vanished  clean  away, 
And  the  old  manse  is  changed  to-day; 
96 


It  wears  an  altered  face 

And  shields  a  stranger  race0 

The  river,  on  from  mill  to  mill, 

Flows  past  our  childhood's  garden  still; 

But  ah !  we  children  never  more 

Shall  watch  it  from  the  water-door! 

Below  the  yew  —  it  still  is  there  — 

Our  phantom  voices  haunt  the  air 

As  we  were  still  at  play, 

And  I  can  hear  them  call  and  say: 

"How  far  is  it  to  Babylon?'* 

Ah,  far  enough,  my  dear, 

Far,  far  enough  from  here  — 

Yet  you  have  farther  gone ! 

"Can  I  get  there  by  candlelight?" 

So  goes  the  old  refrain. 

I  do  not  know  —  perchance  you  might  - 

But  only,  children,  hear  it  right, 

Ah,  never  to  return  again ! 

The  eternal  dawn,  beyond  a  doubt, 

Shall  break  on  hill  and  plain, 

And  put  all  stars  and  candles  out 

Ere  we  be  young  again. 

To  you  in  distant  India,  these 

I  send  across  the  seas, 

Nor  count  it  far  across. 

97 


For  wslich  of  us  forgets 
The  Indian  cabinets, 

The  bones  of  antelope,  the  wings  of  alba- 
tross, 
The  pied  and  painted  birds  and  beans, 
The  junks  and  bangles,  beads  and  screens, 
The  gods  and  sacred  bells, 
And  the  loud-humming,  twisted  shells! 
The  level  of  the  parlour  floor 
Was  honest,  homely,  Scottish  shore; 
But  when  we  climbed  upon  a  chair, 
Behold  the  gorgeous  East  was  there! 
Be  this  a  fabk;  and  behold 
Me  in  the  parlour  as  of  old, 
And  Minnie  just  above  me  set 
In  the  quaint  Indian  cabinet! 
Smiling  and  kind,  you  grace  a  shelf 
Too  high  for  me  to  reach  myself. 
Reach  down  3.  hand,  my  dear,  and  take 
These  *hymes  for  old  acquaintance'  sake! 


98 


TO  MY  NAME-CHILD 

(QOME  day  soon  this  rhyming  volume,  if 

O  you  learn  with  proper  speed, 

Little  Louis  Sanchez,  will  be  given  you  to 

read. 
Then  shall  you  discover,  that  your  name 

was  printed  down 
By  the  English  printers,  long  before,  in 

London  town. 

In  the  great  and  busy  city  where  the  East 

and  West  are  met, 
All  the  little  letters  did  the  English  printer 

set; 
While  you  thought  of  nothing,  and  were  still 

too  young  to  play, 
Foreign  people  thought  of  you  in  places  far 

away. 

Ay,  and  while  you  slept,  a  baby,  over  all 

the  English  lands 
Other  little  children  took  the  volume  ia 

their  hands; 

99 


Other  children  questioned,  in  their  homes 

across  the  seas: 
Who  was  little  Louis,  won't  you  tell  us. 

mother,  please? 

Now  that  you  have  spelt  your  lesson,  lay  it 

down  and  go  and  play, 
Seeking  shells  and  seaweed  on  the  sands  of 

Monterey, 
Watching  all  the  mighty  whalebones,  lying 

buried  by  the  breeze, 
Tiny  sandy-pipers,  and  the  huge  Pacific  seas. 

And  remember  in  your  playing,  as  the  sea- 
fog  rolls  to  you, 

Long  ere  you  could  read  it,  how  I  told  you 
what  to  do; 

And  that  while  you  thought  of  no  one. 
nearly  half  the  world  away 

Some  one  thought  of  Louis  on  the  beach  of 
Monterey! 


TO  ANY  READER 

AS  from  the  house  your  mother  sees 
You  playing  round  the  garden  trees 
So  you  may  see,  if  you  will  look 
Through  the  windows  of  this  book, 
Another  child,  far,  far  away, 
And  in  another  garden,  play. 
But  do  not  think  you  can  at  all, 
By  knocking  on  the  window,  call 
That  child  to  hear  you.     Ht  intent 
Is  all  on  his  play-business  bent. 
He  does  not  hear;  he  will  not  look,, 
Nor  yet  be  lured  out  of  this  book. 
For,  long  ago,  the  truth  to  say, 
He  has  grown  up  and  gone  away, 
And  it  is  but  a  child  of  air 
That  lingers  in  the  garden  there. 


PART  II 


UNDERWOODS 


Of  aU  my  verse,  like  not  a  single  line; 
But  like  my  title,  for  it  is  not  mine. 
That  title  from  a  better  man  I  stole: 
Ah,  halt)  much  better,  had  I  stoVn  the  whole* 


DEDICATION 

THERE  are  men  and  classes  of  men  thai 
stand  above  the  common  herd:  the  soldier, 
the  sailor  and  the  shepherd  not  unjrequenily; 
the  artist  rarely;  rarelier  still,  the  clergyman; 
the  physician  almost  as  a  rule.  He  is  the 
flower  {such  as  it  is)  of  our  civilisation;  and 
when  that  stage  of  man  is  done  with,  and  only 
.ememhered  to  be  marvelled  at  in  history,  he 
will  he  thought  to  have  shared  as  little  as  any 
%n  the  defects  of  the  period,  and  most  notably 
exhibited  the  virtues  of  the  race.  Generosity 
he  has,  such  as  is  possible  to  those  who  practise 
an  art,  never  to  those  who  drive  a  trade;  dis- 
cretion, tested  by  a  hundred  secrets;  tact,  tried 
in  a  thousand  embarrassments;  and  what  are 
more  important,  Heraclean  cheerfulness  and 
courage.  So  it  is  that  he  brings  air  and 
cheer  into  the  sickroom,  and  often  enough, 
though  not  so  often  as  he  wishes,  brings 
healing. 

Gratitude  is  but  a  lame  sentiment;  thanks, 
when   they   are   expressed,   are   often   more 
5 


embarrassing  than  welcome;  and  yet  I  must 
set  forth  mine  to  a  jew  out  of  many  doctors 
who  have  brought  me  comfort  and  help:  to 
Or.  Willey  of  San  Francisco,  whose  kindness 
fo  a  stranger  it  must  be  as  grateful  to  him,  as 
it  is  touching  to  me,  to  remember;  to  Dr.  Karl 
Ruedi  of  Davos,  the  good  genius  of  the  English 
in  his  frosty  mountains;  to  Dr.  Herlert  of 
Paris,  whom  I  knew  only  for  a  week,  and  to 
Dr.  Caissot  of  Montpellier,  whom  I  knew 
mly  for  ten  days,  and  who  have  yet  written 
their  namts  deeply  in  my  memory;  to  Dr. 
Brandt  of  Royal;  to  Dr.  Wakefield  of  Nice; 
to  Dr.  Chepnell,  whose  visits  make  it  a  pleasure 
to  be  ill;  to  Dr.  Horace  Dobell,  so  wise  in 
counsel;  to  Sir  Andrew  Clark,  so  unwearied 
in  kindness;  and  to  that  wise  youth,  my  uncle. 
Dr.  Balfour. 

I  forget  as  many  as  I  remember;  and  I  ask 
both  to  pardon  me,  these  for  silence,  those  for 
inadequate  speech.  But  one  name  I  have 
kept  on  purpose  to  the  last,  because  it  is  a 
household  word  with  me,  and  because  if  t 
had  not  received  favours  from  so  many  hands, 
and  in  jo  many  quarters  of  the  world,  it 
should  have  stood  upon  this  page,  alone:  that 
q(  my  friend  Thomas  Bodley  Scoti  of  Bourne' 
6 


mouth.  Will  he  accept  this,  although  shared 
among  so  many,  for  a  dedication  to  himself? 
and  when  next  my  ill-fortune  {which  has  thus 
its  pleasant  side)  brings  him  hurrying  to  me 
when  he  would  fain  sit  down  to  meat  or  lie 
down  to  rest,  will  he  care  to  remember  that  he 
takes  this  trouble  for  one  who  is  not  fool 
enough  to  be  ungrateful? 

R.  L.  S. 
Skerryvore, 

Bournemouth. 


NOTE 

rHE  human  conscience  has  fled  of  late 
the  troublesome  domain  of  conduct  for 
what  I  should  have  supposed  to  be  the  less 
congenial  field  of  art:  there  she  may  now  be 
said  to  rage,  and  with  special  severity  in  all 
that  touches  dialect;  so  that  in  every  novel  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet  are  tortured,  and  the 
reader  wearied,  to  commemorate  shades  of 
mispronunciation.  Now  spelling  is  an  art 
of  great  difficulty  in  my  eyes,  and  I  am 
inclined  to  lean  upon  the  printer,  even  in 
common  practice,  rather  than  to  venture 
abroad  upon  new  quests.  And  the  Scots 
tongue  has  an  orthography  of  its  own,  lacking 
neither  " authority  nor  author."  Yet  the 
temptation  is  great  to  lend  a  little  guidance  to 
the  bewildered  Englishman.  Some  simple 
phonetic  artifice  might  defend  your  verses 
from  barbarous  mishandling,  and  yet  not 
injure  any  vested  interest.  So  it  seems  at 
first;  but  there  are  rocks  ahead.  Thus,  if  I 
wish  the  diphthong  ou  to  have  its  proper 
7J  9 


value,  I  may  write  oor  instead  of  our;  many 
have  done  so  and  lived,  and  the  pillars  of  the 
universe  remained  unshaken.  But  if  I  did 
so,  and  came  presently  to  doun,  which  is  the 
classical  Scots  spelling  of  the  English  down, 
/  should  begin  to  feel  uneasy;  and  if  I  went 
on  a  little  farther,  and  came  to  a  classical 
Scots  word,  like  stour  or  dour  or  clour,  / 
should  know  precisely  where  I  was  —  that  is 
to  say,  that  I  was  out  of  sight  of  land  on  those 
high  seas  of  spelling  reform  in  which  so  many 
strong  swimmers  have  toiled  vainly.  To  some 
the  situation  is  exhilarating;  as  for  me,  I  give 
one  bubbling  cry  and  sink.  The  compromise, 
at  which  I  have  arrived  is  indefensible,  ana, 
I  have  no  thought  of  trying  to  defend  it.  As 
I  have  stuck  for  the  most  part  to  the  proper 
spelling,  I  append  a  table  of  some  common 
vowel  sounds  which  no  one  need  consult;  and 
just  to  prove  that  I  belong  to  my  age  and  have 
in  me  the  stuff  of  a  reformer,  I  have  used 
modification  marks  throughout.  Thus  I  can 
tell  myself,  not  without  pride,  that  I  have 
added  a  fresh  stumbling-block  for  English 
readers,  and  to  a  page  of  print  in  my  native 
tongue,  have  tent  a  new  uncouthness.  Sed 
non  nobis. 

10 


/  note  again,  that  among  our  new  dialec- 
ticians, the  local  habitat  of  every  dialect  is  given 
to  the  square  mile.  I  could  not  emulate  this 
nicety  if  I  desired;  for  I  simply  wrote  my 
Scots  as  well  as  I  was  able,  not  caring  if  it 
hailed  from  Lauderdale  or  Angus,  from  the 
Mearns  or  Galloway;  if  I  had  ever  heard  a 
good  word,  I  used  it  without  shame;  and  when 
Scots  was  lacking,  or  the  rhyme  jibbed,  I  was 
glad  (like  my  betters)  to  fall  back  on  English. 
For  all  that,  I  own  to  a  friendly  feeling  for 
the  tongue  of  Fergusson  and  of  Sir  Walter, 
both  Edinburgh  men;  and  I  confess  that  Burns 
has  always  sounded  in  my  ear  like  something 
partly  foreign.  And  indeed  I  am  from  the 
Lothians  myself;  it  is  there  I  heard  the  lan- 
guage spoken  about  my  childhood;  and  it  is 
in  the  drawling  Lothian  voice  that  I  repeat 
it  to  myself.  Let  the  precisians  call  my 
speech  that  of  the  Lothians.  And  if  it  be  not 
pure,  alas  I  what  matters  it  ?  The  day  draws 
near  when  this  illustrious  and  malleable 
tongue  shall  be  quite  forgotten;  and  Burns' s 
Ayrshire,  and  Dr.  Macdonald's  Aberdeen- 
awa',  and  Scott's  brave,  metropolitan  utter- 
ance will  be  all  equally  the  ghosts  of  speech. 
Till  then  I  would  love  to  have  my  hour  as  a 
ii 


native  Maker,  and  be  read  by  my  own  country- 
folk in  our  own  dying  language:  an  ambition 
surely  rather  of  the  heart  than  of  the  head,  so 
restricted  as  it  is  in  prospect  of  endurance, 
so  parochial  in  bounds  of  space. 


BOOK  I 

IN  ENGLISH 


i 

ENVOY 

GO,  little  book,  and  wish  to  all 
Flowers  in  the  garden,  meat  in  the  hall, 
A  bin  of  wine,  a  spice  of  wit, 
A  house  with  lawns  enclosing  it, 
h  living  river  by  the  door, 
A  nightingale  in  the  sycamore! 


15 


II 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 

THE  gauger  walked  with  willing  foot, 
And  aye  the  gauger  played  the  flute; 
And  what  should  Master  Gauger  play 
But  Over  the  hills  and  far  away? 

Whene'er  I  buckle  on  my  pack 
And  foot  it  gaily  in  the  track, 

0  pleasant  gauger,  long  since  dead, 

1  hear  you  fluting  on  ahead. 

You  go  with  me  the  self-same  way  — 
The  self-same  air  for  me  you  play; 
For  I  do  think  and  so  do  you 
It  is  the  tune  to  travel  to. 

For  who  would  gravely  set  his  face 
To  go  to  this  or  t'other  place? 
There's  nothing  under  heav'n  so  blue 
That's  fairly  worth  the  travelling  to. 
16 


On  every  hand  the  roads  begin, 
And  people  walk  with  zeal  therein; 
But  wheresoe'r  the  highways  tend, 
Be  sure  there's  nothing  at  the  end. 

Then  follow  you,  wherever  hie 
The  travelling  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Or  let  the  streams  in  civil  mode 
Direct,  your  choice  upon  a  road; 

For  one  and  all,  or  high  or  low, 
Will  lead  you  where  you  wish  to  go; 
And  one  and  all  go  night  and  day 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Forest  of  Montargis,  1878 


Ill 

THE  CANOE  SPEAKS 

ON  the  great  streams  the  ships  may  go 
About  men's  business  to  and  fro. 
But  I,  the  egg-shell  pinnace,  sleep 
On  crystal  waters  ankle-deep : 
I,  whose  diminutive  design, 
Of  sweeter  cedar,  pithier  pine, 
Is  fashioned  on  so  frail  a  mould, 
A  hand  may  launch,  a  hand  withhold: 
I,  rather,  with  the  leaping  trout 
Wind,  among  lilies,  in  and  out; 
I,  the  unnamed,  inviolate, 
Green,  rustic  rivers,  navigate; 
My  dipping  paddle  scarcely  shakes 
The  berry  in  the  bramble-brakes; 
Still  forth  on  my  green  way  I  wend 
Beside  the  cottage  garden-end; 
And  by  the  nested  angler  fare, 
And  take  the  lovers  unaware. 
By  willow  wood  and  water-wheel 
Speedily  fleets  my  touching  keel; 
By  all  retired  and  shady  spots 

18 


Where  prosper  dim  forget-me-nots ; 
By  meadows  where  at  afternoon 
The  growing  maidens  troop  in  June 
To  loose  their  girdles  on  the  grass. 
Ah !  speedier  than  before  the  glass 
The  backward  toilet  goes;  and  swift 
As  swallows  quiver,  robe  and  shift 
And  the  rough  country  stockings  lie 
Around  each  young  divinity. 
When,  following  the  recondite  brook, 
Sudden  upon  this  scene  I  look, 
And  light  with  unfamiliar  face 
On  chaste  Diana's  bathing-place, 
Loud  ring  the  hills  about  and  all 
The  shallows  are  abandoned.  .  .  „ 


IV 

IT  is  the  season  now  to  go 
About  the  country  high  and  low, 
Among  the  lilacs  hand  in  hand, 
And  two  by  two  in  fairy  land. 

The  brooding  boy,  the  sighing  maid, 
Wholly  fain  and  half  afraid, 
Now  meet  along  the  hazel'd  brook 
To  pass  and  linger,  pause  and  look, 

A  year  ago,  and  blithely  paired, 

Their  rough-and-tumble  play  they  shared; 

They  kissed  and  quarrelled,  laughed  and 

cried, 
A  year  ago  at  Eastertide. 

With  bursting  heart,  with  fiery  face, 

She  strove  against  him  in  the  race; 

He  unabashed  her  garter  saw, 

That  now  would  touch  her  skirts  with  aw& 

Now  by  the  stile  ablaze  she  stops, 
And  his  demurer  eyes  he  drops ; 
Now  they  exchange  averted  sighs 
Or  stand  and  marry  silent  eyes. 


And  he  to  her  a  hero  Is 
And  sweeter  she  than  primroses; 
Their  common  silence  dearer  far 
Than  nightingale  and  mavis  are. 

Now  when  they  sever  wedded  hands, 
Joy  trembles  in  their  bosom-strands, 
And  lovely  laughter  leaps  and  falls 
Upon  their  lips  in  madrigals. 


V 

THE  HOUSE  BEAUTIFUL 

A  NAKED  house,  a  naked  moor, 
+  ±  A  shivering  'pool  before  the  door, 
A  garden  hare  of  flowers  and  fruit 
And  poplars  at  the  garden  foot : 
Such  is  the  place  that  I  live  in, 
Bleak  without  and  hare  within. 

Yet  shall  your  ragged  moor  receive 
The  incomparable  pomp  of  eve, 
And  the  cold  glories  of  the  dawn 
Behind  your  shivering  trees  be  drawn; 
And  when  the  wind  from  place  to  place 
Doth  the  unmoored  cloud-galleons  chase, 
Your  garden  gloom  and  gleam  again, 
With  leaping  sun.  with  glancing  rain 
Here  shall  the  wizard  moon  ascend 
The  heavens,  in  the  crimson  end 
Of  day's  declining  splendour;  here 
The  army  of  the  stars  appear. 
The  neighbour  hollows  dry  or  wet, 
Spring  shall  with  tender  flowers  beset; 


And  oft  the  morning  muser  sc^ 
Larks  rising  from  the  broomy  lea, 
And  every  fairy  wheel  and  thread 
Of  cobweb  dew-bediamonded. 
When  daisies  go,  shall  winter  time 
Silver  the  simple  grass  with  rime; 
Autumnal  frosts  enchant  the  pooi 
And  make  the  cart-ruts  beautiful ; 
And  when  snow-bright  the  moor  expands, 
How  shall  your  children  clap  their  hands? 
To  make  this  earth,  our  hermitage, 
A  cheerful  and  a  changeful  page, 
God's  bright  and  intricate  device 
Of  days  and  seasons  doth  suffice. 


VI 

A  VISIT  FROM  THE  SEA 

FAR  from  the  loud  sea  beaches 
Where  he  goes  fishing  and  crying 
Here  in  the  inland  garden 
Why  is  the  sea-gull  flying? 

Here  are  no  fish  to  dive  for; 

Here  is  the  corn  and  lea; 
Here  are  the  green  trees  rustling. 

Hie  away  home  to  sea ! 

Fresh  is  the  river  water 
And  quiet  among  the  rushes: 

This  is  no  home  for  the  sea-gull 
But  for  the  rooks  and  thrushes. 

Pity  the  bird  that  has  wandered! 

Pity  the  sailor  ashore ! 
Hurry  him  home  to  the  ocean, 

Let  him  come  here  no  moreS 

9%. 


High  on  the  sea-cliff  ledges 

The  white  gulls  are  trooping  and  trying, 
Here  among  rooks  and  roses, 

Why  is  the  sea-gull  flying? 


VII 

TO  A  GARDENER 

FRIEND,  in  my  mountain-side  demesne 
My  plain-beholding,  rosy,  green 
And  linnet-haunted  garden-ground, 
Let  still  the  esculents  abound. 
Let  first  the  onion  flourish  there, 
Rose  among  roots,  the  maiden-fair, 
Wine-scented  and  poetic  soul 
Of  the  capacious  salad  bowl. 
Let  thyme  the  mountaineer  (to  dress 
The  tinier  birds)  and  wading  cress, 
The  lover  of  the  shallow  brook, 
From  all  my  plots  and  borders  look. 
Nor  crisp  and  ruddy  radish,  nor 
Pease-cods  for  the  child's  pinafore 
Be  lacking;  nor  of  salad  clan 
The  last  and  least  that  ever  ran 
About  great  nature's  garden-beds. 
Nor  thence  be  missed  the  speary  heads 
Of  artichoke;  nor  thence  the  bean 
That  gathered  innocent  and  green 
Outsavours  the  belauded  pea. 


These  tend,  I  prithee;  and  for  me, 
Thy  most  long-suffering  master,  bring 
In  April,  when  the  linnets  sing 
And  the  days  lengthen  more  and  more. 
At  sundown  to  the  garden  door. 
And  I,  being  provided  thus, 
Shall,  with  superb  asparagus, 
A  book,  a  taper,  and  a  cup 
Of  country  wine,  divinely  sup. 

JLa  Solitude,  Hyeres. 


VIII 

TO  MINNIE 

(With  a  hand-glass) 

A  PICTURE-FRAME  for  you  to  fill 
A  paltry  setting  for  your  face, 
A  thing  that  has  no  worth  until 
You  lend  it  something  of  your  grace, 

i  send  (unhappy  I  that  sing 
Laid  by  awhile  upon  the  shelf) 

Because  I  would  not  send  a  thing 
Less  charming  than  you  are  yourself. 

And  happier  than  I,  alas! 

(Dumb  thing,  I  envy  its  delight) 
"T  will  wish  you  well,  the  looking-glass. 

And  look  you  in  the  face  to-night. 


IX 
TO  K.  DE  M. 

A  LOVER  of  the  moorland  bare, 
And  honest  country  winds,  you  were; 
The  silver-skimming  rain  you  took; 
And  loved  the  floodings  of  the  brook , 
Dew,  frost  and  mountains,  fire  and  seas. 
Tumultuary  silences, 
Winds  that  in  darkness  fifed  a  tune, 
And  the  high-riding  virgin  moon. 

And  as  the  berry,  pale  and  sharp, 
Springs  on  some  ditch's  counterscarp 
In  our  ungenial,  native  north  — 
You  put  your  frosted  wildings  forth, 
And  on  the  heath,  afar  from  man, 
A  strong  and  bitter  virgin  ran. 

The  berry  ripened  keeps  the  rude 
And  racy  flavour  of  the  wood. 
And  you  that  loved  the  empty  plain 
All  redolent  of  wind  and  rain, 


Around  you  still  the  curlew  sings  — 
The  freshness  of  the  weather  clings  - 
The  maiden  jewels  of  the  rain 
Sit  in  your  dabbled  ocks  again. 


TO  N.  V.  DE  G.  S. 

THE  unfathomable  sea,  and  time,  and 
tears, 
The  deeds  of  heroes  and  the  crimes  of  kings 
Dispart  us;  and  the  river  of  events 
Has,  for  an  age  of  years,  to  east  and  west 
More  widely  borne  our  cradles.     Thou  to  me 
Art  foreign,  as  when  seamen  at  the  dawn 
Descry  a  land  far  off  and  know  not  which. 
So  I  approach  uncertain ;  so  I  cruise 
Round  thy  mysterious  islet,  and  behold 
Surf  and  great  mountains  and  loud  river> 

bars, 
And  from  the  shore  hear  inland  voices  call. 
Strange  is  the  seaman's  heart;  he  hopes,  he 

fears; 
Draws  closer  and  sweeps  wider  from  that 

coast; 
Last,  his  rent  sail  refits,  and  to  the  deep 
His  shattered  prow  uncomforted  puts  back, 
Yet  as  he  goes  he  ponders  at  the  helm 


Of  that  bright  island;  where  he  feared  to 

touch, 
His  spirit  readventures;  and  for  years, 
Where  by  his  wife  he  slumbers  safe  at  home, 
Thoughts  of  that  land  revisit  him;  he  sees 
The  eternal  mountains  beckon,  and  awakes 
Yearning  for  that  far  home  that  might  have 

been. 


XI 

TO  WILL.  H.  LOW 

YOUTH  now  flees  on  feathered  foot. 
Faint  and  fainter  sounds  the  flute. 
Rarer  songs  of  gods ;  and  still 
Somewhere  on  the  sunny  hill, 
Or  along  the  winding  stream, 
Through  the  willows,  flits  a  dream; 
Flits,  but  shows  a  smiling  face, 
Flees,  but  with  so  quaint  a  grace, 
None  can  choose  to  stay  at  home, 
All  must  follow,  all  must  roam. 

This  is  unborn  beauty:  she 
Now  in  air  floats  high  and  free, 
Takes  the  sun  and  breaks  the  blue;  — 
Late  with  stooping  pinion  flew 
Raking  hedgerow  trees,  and  wet 
Her  wing  in  silver  streams,  and  set 
Shining  foot  on  temple  roof: 
Now  again  she  flies  aloof, 
Coasting  mountain  clouds  and  kiss't 
By  the  evening's  amethyst. 
53 


In  wet  wood  and  miry  lane. 
Still  we  pant  and  pound  in  vain; 
Still  with  leaden  foot  we  chase 
Waning  pinion,  fainting  face; 
Still  with  grey  hair  we  stumble  on, 
Till,  behold,  the  vision  gone! 
Where  hath  fleeting  beauty  led? 
To  the  doorway  of  the  dead. 
Life  is  over,  life  was  gay: 
We  have  come  the  primrose  way. 


84 


XII 
TO  MRS.  WILL.  H.  LOW 

EVEN  in  the  bluest  noonday  of  July, 
There  could  not  run  the  smallest  breath 

of  wind 
But  all  the  quarter  sounded  like  a  wood; 
And  in  the  chequered  silence  and  above 
The  hum  of  city  cabs  that  sought  the  Bois. 
Suburban  ashes  shivered  into  song. 
A  patter  and  a  chatter  and  a  chirp 
And  a  long  dying  hiss  —  it  was  as  though 
Starched  old  brocaded  dames  through  all 

the  house 
Had  trailed  a  strident  skirt,  or  the  whole  sky 
Even  in  a  wink  had  over-brimmed  in  rain. 
Hark,  in  these  shady  parlours,  how  it  talks 
Of  the  near  autumn,  how  the  smitten  ash 
Trembles  and  augurs  floods !    O  not  too  long 
In  these  inconstant  latitudes  delay, 
O  not  too  late  from  the  unbeloved  north 
Trim  your  escape!    For  soon  shall  this  low 

roof 

-35 


Resound  indeed  with  rain,  soon  shall  your 

eyes 
Search  the  foul  garden,  search  the  darkened 

rooms, 
Nor  find  one  jewel  but  the  blazing  log. 

12  Rue  Vernier,  Paris, 


XIII 

TO  H.  F.  BROWN 

{Written  during  a  dangerous  sickness) 

IS  IT  and  wait  a  pair  of  oars 
On  cis-Elysian  river-shores. 
Where  the  immortal  dead  have  sate, 
'T  is  mine  to  sit  and  meditate; 
To  re-ascend  life's  rivulet, 
Without  remorse,  without  regret;   ' 
And  sing  my  Alma  Genetrix 
Among  the  willows  of  the  Styx. 

And  lo,  as  my  serener  soul 
Did  these  unhappy  shores  patrol, 
And  wait  with  an  attentive  ear 
The  coming  of  the  gondolier, 
Your  fire-surviving  roll  I  took, 
Your  spirited  and  happy  book;1 

lLije  on  the  Lagoons,  by  H.  F.  Brown,  originally 
burned  in  the  fire  at  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench 
&  Co.'s. 

37 


Whereon,  despite  my  frowning  fate, 
It  did  my  soul  so  recreate 
That  all  my  fancies  fled  away 
On  a  Venetian  holiday. 

Now,  thanks  to  your  triumphant  care. 

Your  pages  clear  as  April  air, 

The  sails,  the  bells,  the  birds,  I  know, 

And  the  far-off  Friulan  snow; 

The  land  and  sea,  the  sun  and  shade, 

And  the  blue  even  lamp-inlaid. 

For  this,  for  these,  for  all,  O  friend, 

For  your  whole  book  from  end  to  end — 

For  Paron  Piero's  muttonham  — 

I  your  defaulting  debtor  am. 

Perchance,  reviving,  yet  may  I 
To  your  sea-paven  city  hie, 
And  in  a  }el%e,  some  day  yet 
Light  at  your  pipe  my  cigarette. 


# 


XIV 
TO  ANDREW  LANG 

DEAR  Andrew,  with  the  brindled  hair, 
Who  glory  to  have  thrown  in  air, 
High  over  arm,  the  trembling  reed, 
By  Ale  and  Kail,  by  Till  and  Tweed: 
An  equal  craft  of  hand  you  show 
The  pen  to  guide,  the  fly  to  throw: 
I  count  you  happy  starred :  for  God, 
When  he  with  inkpot  and  with  rod 
Endowed  you,  bade  your  fortune  lead 
Forever  by  the  crooks  of  Tweed, 
Forever  by  the  woods  of  song 
And  lands  that  to  the  Muse  belong; 
Or  if  in  peopled  streets,  or  in 
The  abhorred  pedantic  sanhedrim, 
It  should  be  yours  to  wander,  still 
Airs  of  the  morn,  airs  of  the  hill, 
The  plovery  Forest  and  the  seas 
That  break  about  the  Hebrides, 
Should  follow  over  field  and  plain 
And  find  you  at  the  window  pane; 
39 


And  you  again  see  hill  and  peel, 

And  the  bright  springs  gush  at  your  heel. 

So  went  the  fiat  forth,  and  so 

Garrulous  like  a  brook  you  go, 

With  sound  of  happy  mirth  and  sheen 

Of  daylight  —  whether  by  the  green 

You  fare  that  moment,  or  the  grey; 

Whether  you  dwell  in  March  or  May; 

Or  whether  treat  of  reels  and  rods 

Or  of  the  old  unhappy  gods : 

Still  like  a  brook  your  page  has  shone. 

And  your  ink  sings  of  Helicon. 


XV 
ET  TU  IN  ARCADIA  VIXISTI 

(TO  R.  A.  M.  S.) 

IN  ancient  tales,  O  friend,  thy  spirit 
dwelt ; 

There,  from  of  old,  thy  childhood  passed; 
and  there 

High  expectation,  high  delights  and  deeds, 

Thy  fluttering  heart  with  hope  and  terror 
moved. 

And  thou  hast  heard  of  yore  the  Blatant 
Beast, 

And  Roland's  horn,  and  that  war-scattering 
shout 

Of  all-unarmed  Achilles,  aegis-crowned. 

And  perilous  lands  thou  sawest,  sounding 
shores 

And  seas  and  forests  drear,  island  and  dale 

And  mountain  dark.  For  thou  with  Tris- 
tram rod'st 

Or  Bedevere,  in  farthest  Lyonesse. 

Thou  hadst  a  booth  in  Samarcand,  whereat 
8  J  n 


Side-looking  Magians  trafficked;  thence,  by 

night, 
An  Afreet  snatched  thee,  and  with  wings 

upbore 
Beyond  the  Aral  mount;  or,  hoping  gain, 
Thou,  with  a  jar  of  money,  didst  embark, 
For  Balsorah,  by  sea.     But  chiefly  thou 
In  that  clear  air  took'st  life;  in  Arcady 
The  haunted,  land  of  song;  and  by  the  wells 
Where    most    the    gods    frequent.     There 

Chiron  old, 
In  the  Pelethronian  antre,  taught  thee  lore: 
The  plants,  he  taught,  and  by  the  shining 

stars 
In  forests  dim  to  steer.     There  hast  thou 

seen 
Immortal  Pan  dance  secret  in  a  glade, 
And,  dancing,   roll  his  eyes;  these,  where 

they  fell, 
Shed  glee,  and  through  the  congregated  oaks 
A  flying  horror  winged;  while  all  the  earth 
To    the    god's    pregnant    footing    thrilled 

within. 
Or  whiles,  beside  the  sobbing  stream,  he 

breathed, 
In  his  clutched  pipe,  unformed  and  wizard 

strains, 

42 


Divine  yet  brutal ;  which  the  forest  heard, 
And  thou,  with  awe;  and  far  upon  the  plain 
The    unthinking    ploughman    started    and 
gave  ear. 

Now  things  there  are  that,  upon  him  who 

sees, 
A  strong  vocation  lay;  and  strains  there  are 
That  whoso  hears  shall  hear  for  evermore. 
For  evermore  thou  hear'st  immortal  Pan 
And  those  melodious  godheads,  ever  young 
And  ever  quiring,  on  the  mountains  old. 

What  was  this  earth,  child  of  the  gods,  to 

thee? 
Forth  from  thy  dreamland  thou,  a  dreamer, 

cam'st, 
And  in  thine  ears  the  olden  music  rang, 
And  in  thy  mind  the  doings  of  the  dead, 
And  those  heroic  ages  long  forgot. 
To  a  so  fallen  earth,  alas !  too  late. 
Alas!  in  evil  days,  thy  steps  return, 
To  list  at  noon  for  nightingales,  to  grow 
A  dweller  on  the  beach  till  Argo  come 
That  came  long  since,  a  lingerer  by  the 

pool 
Where  that  desired  angel  bathes  no  more. 

43 


As  when  the  Indian  to  Dakota  comes, 
Or  farthest  Idaho,  and  where  he  dwelt, 
He  with  his  clan,  a  humming  city  finds; 
Thereon  awhile,  amazed,  he  stares,  and  thei* 
To  right  and  leftward,  like  a  questing  dog, 
Seeks  first  the  ancestral  altars,   then   the 

hearth 
Long  cold  with  rains,  and  where  old  terroi 

lodged, 
And   where   the   dead.     So   thee   undying 

Hope, 
With  ail  her  pack,  hunts  screaming  through 

the  years: 
Here,  there,  thou  fleeest;  but  nor  here  nor 

there 
The  pleasant  gods  abide,  the  glory  dwells. 

That,  that  was  not  Apollo,  not  the  god. 
This   was   not   Venus,   though   she   Venus 

seemed 
A  moment.     And    though    fair    yon    river 

move, 
She,  all  the  way,  from  disenchanted  fount 
To  seas  unhallowed  runs;  the  gods  forsook 
Long  since  her  trembling  rushes;  from  her 

plains 
Disconsolate,  iong  since  adventure  fled; 

44 


And  now  although  the  inviting  river  flows, 
And  every  poplared  cape,  and  every  bend 
Or  willowy  islet,  win  upon  thy  soul 
And  to  thy  hopeful  shallop  whisper  speed; 
Yet  hope  not  thou  at  all;  hope  is  no  more, 
And  O,  long  since  the  golden  groves  are 

dead, 
The  faery  cities  vanished  from  the  land! 


XVI 
TO  W.  E.  HENLEY 

fTUHE  year  runs  through  her  phases;  rain 
A     and  sun, 

Springtime  and  summer  pass;  winter  suc- 
ceeds; 

But  one  pale  season  rules  the  house  of  death. 

Cold  falls  the  imprisoned  daylight;  feJl 
disease 

By  each  lean  pallet  squats,  and  pain  and 
sleep 

Toss  gaping  on  the  pillows. 

But  O  thou! 
Uprise  and  take  thy  pipe.     Bid  music  flow, 
Strains  by  good  thoughts  attended,  like  the 

spring 
The  swallows  follow  over  land  and  sea. 
Pain  sleeps  at  once;  at  once,  with  open  eyes, 
Dozing  despair  awakes.     The  shepherd  sees 
His  flock  come  bleating  home;  the  seaman 

bears 

4J6 


Once    more   the    cordage    rattle.    Airs   oi 

home! 
Youth,  love  and  roses  blossom;  the  gaunt 

ward 
Dislimns  and  disappears,  and,  opening  out, 
Shows  brooks  and  forests,   and  the  blue 

beyond 
Of  mountains. 

Small  the  pipe;  but  O!  do  thou, 
Peak-faced  and  suffering  piper,  blow  therein 
The  dirge  of  heroes  dead;  and  to  these  sick, 
These  dying,  sound  the  triumph  over  death. 
Behold!  each  greatly  breathes;  each  tastes 

a  joy 
Unknown  before,  in  dying;  for  each  knows 
A  hero  dies  with  him  —  though  unfulfilled 
Yet   conquering  truly  —  and   not   dies  in 

vain. 

So  is  pain  cheered,  death  comforted;  the 

house 
Of  sorrows  smiles  to  listen.    Once  again  — 
O  thou,  Orpheus  and  Heracles,  the  bard 
And  the  deliverer,  touch  the  stops  again! 


47 


XVII 
HENRY  JAMES 

WHO  comes  tonight?    We  ope  the 
doors  in  vain. 
Who  comes?    My  bursting  walls,  can  you 

contain 
The  presences  that  now  together  throng 
Your  narrow  entry,   as  with  flowers  and 

song, 
As  with  the  air  of  life,  the  breath  of  talk? 
Lo,  how  these  fair  immaculate  women  walk 
Behind  their  jocund  maker;  and  we  see 
Slighted  De  Mauves,  and  that  far  different 

she, 
Gressie,  the  trivial  sphynx;  and  to  our  feast 
Daisy  and  Barb  and  Chancellor  (she  not 

least !) 
With  all  their  silken,  all  their  airy  kin, 
Do  like  unbidden  angels  enter  in. 
But  he,  attended  by  these  shining  names, 
Comes  (best  of  all)  himself  —  our  welcome 

James. 


XVIII 
THE  MIRROR  SPEAKS 

WHERE  the  bells  peal  far  at  sea 
Cunning  fingers  fashioned  me. 
There  on  palace  walls  I  hung 
While  that  Consuelo  sung; 
But  I  heard,  though  I  listened  well, 
Never  a  note,  never  a  trill, 
Never  a  beat  of  the  chiming  bell. 
There  I  hung  and  looked,  and  there 
In  my  grey  face,  faces  fair 
Shone  from  under  shining  hair. 
Well  I  saw  the  poising  head, 
But  the  lips  moved  and  nothing  said; 
And  when  lights  were  in  the  hall, 
Silent  moved  the  dancers  all. 

So  awhile  I  glowed,  and  then 
Fell  on  dusty  days  and  men; 
Long  I  slumbered  packed  in  straw, 
Long  I  none  but  dealers  saw; 
Till  before  my  silent  eye 
One  that  sees  came  passing  by. 

49 


Now  with  an  outlandish  grace, 
To  the  sparkling  fire  I  face 
In  the  blue  room  at  Skerryvore; 
Where  i  wait  until  the  door 
Open,  and  the  Prince  of  Men, 
Henry  James,  shall  come  again. 


XTX 
KATHARINE 

WE  see  you  as  we  see  a  face 
That  trembles  in  a  forest  piace 
Upon  the  mirror  of  a  pool 
Forever  quiet,  clear  and  cool ; 
And  in  the  wayward  glass,  appears 
To  hover  between  smiles  and  tears. 
Elfin  and  human,  airy  and  true, 
And  backed  by  the  reflected  blue- 


XX 

TO  F.  J.  & 

I  READ,  dear  friend,  in  your  dear  face 
Your  life's  tale  told  with  perfect  grace; 
The  river  of  your  life,  I  trace 
Up  the  sun-chequered,  devious  bed 
To  the  far-distant  fountain-head. 

Not  one  quick  beat  of  your  warm  heart, 
Nor  thought  that  came  to  you  apart, 
Pleasure  nor  pity,  love  nor  pain 
Nor  sorrow,  has  gone  by  in  vain; 

But  as  some  lone,  wood-wandering  child 
Brings  home  with  him  at  evening  mild 
The  thorns  and  flowers  of  all  the  wild, 
From  your  whole  life,  0  fair  and  true 
Your  flowers  and  thorn6  you  bring  with  you! 


XXI 
REQUIEM 

UNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  he; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hilL 


XXII 
THE  CELESTIAL  SURGEON 

IF  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not ;  if  morning  skies. 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain:  - 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  thou,  before  that  spirit  die 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in! 


XXIII 
OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

OUT  of  the  sun,  out  of  the  blast, 
Out  of  the  world,  alone  I  passed 
Across  the  moor  and  through  the  wood 
To  where  the  monastery  stood. 
There  neither  lute  nor  breathing  fife, 
Nor  rumour  of  the  world  of  life, 
Nor  confidences  low  and  dear, 
Shall  strike  the  meditative  ear. 
Aloof,  unhelpful,  and  unkind, 
The  prisoners  of  the  iron  mind, 
Where  nothing  speaks  except  the  bel! 
The  unfraternal  brothers  dwell. 
Poor  passionate  men,  still  clothed  afresh 
With  agonising  folds  of  flesh; 
Whom  the  clear  eyes  solicit  still 
To  some  bold  output  of  the  will, 
While  fairy  Fancy  far  before 
And  musing  Memory-Hold-the-door 
55 


Now  to  heroic  death  invite 
And  now  uncurtain  fresh  delight: 
O,  little  boots  it  thus  to  dwell 
On  the  remote  unneighboured  hill! 

O  to  be  up  and  doing,  O 
Unfearing  and  unshamed  to  go 
In  all  the  uproar  and  the  press 
About  my  human  business! 
My  undissuaded  heart  I  hear 
Whisper  courage  in  my  ear. 
With  voiceless  calls,  the  ancient  earth 
Summons  me  to  a  daily  birth. 
Thou,  O  my  love,  ye,  O  my  friends  — 
The  gist  of  life,  the  end  of  ends  — 
To  laugh,  to  love,  to  live,  to  die, 
Ye  call  me  by  the  ear  and  eye ! 

Forth  from  the  casemate,  on  the  plain 
Where  honour  has  the  world  to  gain, 
Pour  forth  and  bravely  do  your  part, 
O  knights  of  the  unshielded  heart! 
Forth  and  forever  forward !  —  out 
From  prudent  turret  and  redoubt, 
And  in  the  mellay  charge  amain, 
To  fall  but  yet  to  rise  again! 
56 


Captive?  ah,  still,  to  honour  bright, 
A  captive  soldier  of  the  right ! 
Or  free  and  fighting,  good  with  ill? 
Unconquering  but  unconquered  still ! 

And  ye,  O  brethren,  what  if  God, 

When  from  Heav'n's  top  he  spies  abroad. 

And  sees  on  this  tormented  stage 

The  noble  war  of  mankind  rage : 

What  if  his  vivifying  eye, 

O  monks,  should  pass  your  corner  by? 

For  still  the  Lord  is  Lord  of  might ; 
In  deeds,  in  deeds,  he  takes  delight; 
The  plough,  the  spear,  the  laden  barks, 
The  field,  the  founded  city,  marks; 
He  marks  the  smiler  of  the  streets, 
The  singer  upon  garden  seats; 
He  sees  the  climber  in  the  rocks  ; 
To  him,  the  shepherd  folds  his  flocks. 
For  those  he  loves  that  underprop 
With  daily  virtues  Heaven's  top, 
And  bear  the  falling  sky  with  ease, 
Unfrowning  caryatides. 
Those  he  approves  that  ply  the  trade- 
That  rock  the  child,  that  wed  the  maid.. 
57 


That  with  weak  virtues,  weaker  hands, 
Sow  gladness  on  the  peopled  lands, 
And  still  with  laughter,  song  and  shout, 
Spin  the  great  wheel  of  earth  about. 

But  ye?  —  O  ye  who  linger  still 
Here  in  your  fortress  on  the  hill, 
With  placid  face,  with  tranquil  breath, 
The  unsought  volunteers  of  death, 
Our  cheerful  General  on  high 
With  careless  looks  may  pass  you  by» 


XXIV 

NOT  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields 
desert, 
Where  thou  with  grass,  and  rivers,  and  the 

breeze 
And  the  bright  face  of  day,  thy  dalliance 

hadst; 
Where  to  thine  ear  first  sang  the  enraptured 

birds; 
Where  love  and  thou  that  lasting  bargain 

made. 
The    ship    rides    trimmed,    and   from    the 

eternal  shore 
Thou  hearest  airy  voices;  but  not  yet 
Depart,  my  soul,  not  yet  awhile  depart. 

Freedom  is  far,  rest  far.     Thou  art  with  life 
Too    closely    woven,     nerve    with    nerve 

intwined; 
Service  still  craving  service,  love  for  love, 
Love  for  dear  love,  still  suppliant  with  tears. 
Alas,  not  yet  thy  human  task  is  done ! 
A  bond  at  birth  is  forged;  a  debt  doth  lie 


Immortal  on  mortality.     It  grows  — 
By  vast  rebound  it  grows,  unceasing  growth; 
Gift  upon  gift,  alms  upon  alms,  upreared, 
From  man,  from  God,  from  nature,  till    the 

soul 
At  that  so  huge  indulgence  stands  amazed. 

Leave  not,  my  soul,  the  unfoughten  field, 

nor  leave 
Thy  debts  dishonoured,  nor  thy  place  desert 
Without  due  service  rendered.     For  thy  life, 
Up,  spirit,  and  defend  that  fort  of  clay, 
Thy  body,  now  beleaguered;  whether  soon 
Or  late  she  fall ;  whether  to-day  thy  friends 
Bewail  thee  dead,  or,  after  years,  a  man 
Grown   old  in   honour   and   the  friend  of 

peace. 
Contend,   my  soul,   for  moments   and  for 

hours ; 
Each   is   with   service   pregnant;   each   re- 
claimed 
Is  as  a  kingdom  conquered,  where  to  reign. 
As  when  a  captain  rallies  to  the  fight 
His  scattered  legions,  and  beats  ruin  back, 
He,  on  the  field,  encamps,  well  pleased  in 

mind. 
Yet  surely  him  shall  fortune  overtake, 
60 


Him  smite  in  turn,   headlong  his  ensigns 

drive; 
And  that  dear  land,  now  safe,  to-morrow 

fall. 
But  he,  unthinking,  in  the  present  good 
Solely  delights,  and  all  the  camps  rejoice. 


XXV 

IT  is  not  yours,  O  mother,  to  complain, 
Not,  mother,  yours  to  weep, 
Though  nevermore  your  son  again 
Shall  to  your  bosom  creep, 
Though  nevermore  again  you  watch  your 
baby  sleep. 

Though  in  the  greener  paths  of  earth, 

Mother  and  child,  no  more 
We  wander;  and  no  more  the  birth 

Of  me  whom  once  you  bore, 

Seems  still  the  brave  reward  that  once  it 
seemed  of  yore ; 

Though  as  all  passes,  day  and  night, 

The  seasons  and  the  years, 
From  you,  O  mother,  this  delight, 

This  also  disappears  — 

Some  profit  yet  survives  of  all  your  pangs 
and  tears. 

09 


The  child,  the  seed,  the  grain  of  corn, 

The  acorn  on  the  hill, 
Each  for  some  separate  end  is  born 

In  season  fit,  and  still 

Each  must  in  strength  arise  to  work  the 
almighty  will. 

So  from  the  hearth  the  children  flee, 

By  that  almighty  hand 
Austerely  led;  so  one  by  sea 

Goes  forth,  and  one  by  land; 

Nor  aught  of  all  man's  sons  escapes  from 
that  command. 

So  from  the  sally  each  obeys 

The  unseen  almighty  nod; 
So  till  the  ending  all  their  ways 

Blindfolded  loth  have  trod: 

Nor  knew  their  task  at  all,  but  were  the 
tools  of  God. 

And  as  the  fervent  smith  of  yore 

Beat  out  the  glowing  blade, 
Nor  wielded  in  the  front  of  war 
The  weapons  that  he  made, 
But  in  the  tower  at  home  still  plied  his 
ringing  trade ; 
63 


So  like  a  sword  the  son  shall  roam 

On  nobler  missions  sent ; 
And  as  the  smith  remained  at  home 

In  peaceful  turret  pent, 

So  sits  the  while  at  home  the  mother  well 
content. 


KXVI 

THE  SICK  CHILD 

Child.     /^V  MOTHER,  lay  your  hand  on 
V^/    my  brow! 

0  mother,  mother,  where  am  I  now? 
Why   is   the   room   so  gaunt   and 

great? 
Why  am  I  lying  awake  so  late? 

Mother.  Fear  not  at  ?!i:  the  night  is  still. 

Nothing  is   here   that   means  you 

ill  — 
Nothing  but  lamps  the  whole  town 

through, 
And  never  a  child  awake  but  you. 

Child.     Mother,  mother,  speak  low  in  my 
ear, 
Some  of  the  things  are  so  great  ana 

near, 
Some  are  so  small  and  far  away, 

1  have  a  fear  that  I  cannot  say. 

6c 


What  have  I  done,  and  what  do  I 

fear, 
And  why  are  you  crying,  mother 

dear? 

Mother.  Out  in  the  city,  sounds  begin 

Thank  the  kind  God,  the  carts 
come  in ! 

An  hour  or  two  more  and  God  is  so 
kind, 

The  day  shall  be  blue  in  the  window- 
blind, 

Then  shall  my  child  go  sweetly 
asleep, 

And  dream  of  the  birds  and  the 
hills  of  sheep. 


66 


XXVII 
IN  MEMORIAM  F.  A.  S. 

YET,   O  stricken   heart,   remember,  O 
remember 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 
April    came    to    bloom    and    never    dim 
December 
Breathed  its  killing  chills  upon  the  head 
or  heart. 

Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring, 
a  being 
Trod  the  flowery  April  blithely  for  awhile, 
Took  his  fiit  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and 
seeing, 
Came   and   stayed    and  went,   nor  ever 
ceased  to  smile. 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  and  now  when 
all  is  finished, 
You  alone  have  crossed  the  melancholy 
stream, 
Yours  the  pang,  but  his,  O  his,  the  undi- 
minished 
Undecaying  gladness,  un departed  dream. 
67 


All  that  life  contains  of  torture,  toil,  and 
treason, 
Shame,  dishonour,  death,  to  him  were  but 
a  name. 
Here,  a  boy,  he  dwelt  through  all  the  singing 
season 
And  ere  the  day  of  sorrow  departed  as  he 
came. 

Davos,  1881. 


fe 


XXVIII 
TO  MY  FATHER 

PEACE  and  her  huge  invasion  to  these 
shores 
Puts  daily  home;  innumerable  sails 
Dawn  on  the  far  horizon  and  draw  near; 
Innumerable  loves,  uncounted  hopes 
To    our   wild    coasts,    not    darkling    now, 

approach : 
Not  now  obscure,  since  thou  and  thine  art 

there, 
And  bright  on  the  lone  isle,  the  founderec 

reef, 
The    long,     resounding    foreland,    Pharos 

stands. 

These  are  thy  works,  O  father,  these  thy 

crown ; 
Whether  on  high  the  air  be  pure,  they  shine 
Along  the  yellowing  sunset,  and  all  night 
Among  the  unnumbered  stars  of  God  they 

shine; 
Or  whether  fogs  arise  and  far  and  wide 
60 


The   low  sea-level   drown  —  each  finds   a 

tongue 
And  all  night  long  the  tolling  bell  resounds: 
So  shine,  so  toll,  till  night  be  overpast, 
Till  the  stars  vanish,  till  the  sun  return, 
And  in  the  haven  rides  the  fleet  secure. 

In  the  first  hour,  the  seaman  in  his  skiff 
Moves  through  the  unmoving  bay,  to  where 

the  town 
Its  earliest  smoke  into  the  air  upbreathes 
And  the  rough  hazels  climb  along  the  beach. 
To  the  tugg'd  oar  the  distant  echo  speaks. 
The  ship  lies  resting,  where  by  reef  and 

roost 
Thou  and  thy  lights  have  led  her  like  a 

child. 

This  hast  thou  done,  and  I  —  can  I  be  base? 

I  must  arise,  O  father,  and  to  port 

Some  lost,  complaining  seaman  pilot  home. 


70 


XXIX 
IN  THE  STATES 

WITH  half  a  heart  I  wander  here* 
As  from  an  age  gone  by 
A  brother  —  yet  though  young  in  years, 
An  elder  brother,  I. 

You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine, 
Though  both  were  English  born. 

I  towards  the  night  of  time  decline, 
You  mount  into  the  morn. 

Youth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and  free, 

But  age  must  still  decay: 
To-morrow  for  the  States  —  for  me, 

England  and  Yesterday. 

San  Francisco. 


XXX 
A  PORTRAIT 

I  AM  a  kind  of  farthing  dip, 
Unfriendly  to  the  nose  and  eyes,0 
A  blue-behinded  ape,  I  skip 
Upon  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

At  mankind's  feast,  I  take  my  place 
In  solemn,  sanctimonious  state, 

And  have  the  air  of  saying  grace 
While  I  defile  the  dinner  plate. 

I  am  the  "smiler  with  the  knife," 
The  battener  upon  garbage,  I  — 

Dear  Heaven,  with  such  a  rancid  life, 
Were  it  not  better  far  to  die? 

Yet  still,  about  the  human  pale, 
I  love  to  scamper,  love  to  race, 

To  swing  by  my  irreverent  tail 
All  over  the  most  holy  place; 

S2 


And  when  at  length,  some  golden  day, 
The  unfailing  sportsman,  aiming  at, 

Shall  bag,  me  —  all  the  world  shall  say: 
Thank  God,  and  there's  an  end  of  that! 


9J 


XXXI 

SING  clearlier,  Muse,  or  evermore  h%  still, 
Sing  truer  or  no  longer  sing! 
No  more  the  voice  of  melancholy  Jacques 
To  wake  a  weeping  echo  in  the  hill ; 
But  as  the  boy,  the  pirate  of  the  spring, 
From  the  green  elm  a  living  linnet  takes, 
One  natural  verse  recapture  —  then  be  s^lL 


74 


XXXII 
A  CAMP1 

THE  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit; 
The  air  was  still,  the  water  ran, 
No  need  was  there  for  maid  or  man, 
When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I, 
At  God's  green  caravanserai. 

1  From  Travels  with  a  Donkey* 


/$ 


XXXIII 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE 
CAMISARDS1 


w 


E  travelled  in  the  print  of  olden 
wars, 

Yet  all  the  land  was  green, 
And  love  we  found,  and  peace, 
Where  fire  and  war  had  been.     - 


They  pass  and  smile,  the  children  of  the 
sword  — 
No  more  the  sword  they  wield ; 
And  O,  how  deep  the  corn 
Along  the  battlefield ! 

1From  Travels  with  a  Donkey. 


XXXIV 
SKERRYVORE 

FOR  love  of  lovely  words,  and  for  the 
sake 
Of  those,  my  kinsmen  and  my  countrymen, 
Who  early  and  late  in   the  windy  ocean 

toiled 
To  plant  a  star  for  seamen,  where  was  then 
The  surfy  haunt  of  seals  and  cormorants; 
I,  on  the  lintel  of  this  cot,  inscribe 
The  name  of  a  strong  tower. 


V 


XXXV 
SKERRYVORE:  THE  PARALLEL 

HERE  all  is  sunny,  and  when  the  truant 
gull 
Skims  the  green  level  of  the  lawn,  his  wing 
Dispetals  roses;  here  the  house  is  framed 
Of  kneaded  brick  and  the  plumed  mountain 

pine, 
Such  clay  as  artists  fashion  and  such  wood 
As  the  tree-climbing  urchin  breaks.     But 

there 
Eternal  granite  hewn  from  the  living  isle 
And  dowelled  with  brute  iron,  rears  a  towel 
That  from  its  wet  foundation  to  its  crown 
Of  glittering  glass,  stands,  in  the  sweep  of 

winds, 
immovable,  immortal,  eminent. 


7* 


XXXVI 

MY  house,   I   say.      But  hark    to  the 
sunny  doves 
That  make  my  roof  the  arena  of  their  loves, 
That  gyre  about  the  gable  all  day  long' 
And  fill  the  chimneys  with  their  murmurous 

song: 
Our  house,   they  say;  and  mine,   the  cat 

declares 
And   spreads   his   golden   fleece   upon   the 

chairs; 
And  mine  the  dog,  and  rises  stiff  with  wrath 
If  any  alien  foot  profane  the  path. 
So,  too,  the  buck  that  trimmed  my  terraces, 
Our  whilom  gardener,  called  the  garden  his; 
Who  now,  deposed,  surveys  my  plain  abode 
And  his  late  kingdom,  only  from  the  road. 


19 


XXXVII 

MY  body  which  my  dungeon  is, 
And  yet  my  parks  and  palaces:  — 

Which  is  so  great  that  there  I  go 
All  the  day  long  to  and  fro, 
And  when  the  night  begins  to  fall 
Throw  down  my  bed  and  sleep,  while  all 
The  buildings  hum  with  wakefulness  — 
Even  as  a  child  of  savages 
When  evening  takes  her  on  her  way, 
(She  having  roamed  a  summer's  day 
Along  the  mountain-sides  and  scalp) 
Sleeps  in  an  antre  of  that  alp :  — 

Which  is  so  broad  and  high  that  there, 
As  in  the  topless  fields  of  air, 
My  fancy  soars  like  to  a  kite 
And  faints  in  the  blue  infinite:  — 

Which  is  so  strong,  my  strongest  throes 
And  the  rough  world's  besieging  blows 
Not  break  it,  and  so  weak  withal, 
Death  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  loose  wall 
As  the  green  sea  in  fishers'  nets, 
And  tops  its  topmost  parapets:  — 
80 


Which  is  so  wholly  mine  that  I 
Can  wield  its  whole  artillery, 
And  mine  so  little,  that  my  soul 
Dwells  in  perpetual  control, 
And  I  but  think  and  speak  and  do 
As  my  dead  fathers  move  me  to :  — 

If  this  born  body  of  my  bones 
The  beggared  soul  so  barely  owns, 
What  money  passed  from  hand  to  hand, 
What  creeping  custom  of  the  land, 
What  deed  of  author  or  assign, 
Can  make  a  house  a  thing  of  mine? 


XXXVIII 

SAY  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined 
The  labours  of  my  sires,  and  fled  the  sea, 
The  towers  we  founded  and  the  lamps  we  lit, 
To  play  at  home  with  paper  like  a  child. 
But  rather  say:  In  the  afternoon  of  time 
A  strenuous  family  dusted  from  its  hands 
The  sand  of  granite,  and  beholding  far 
Along  the  sounding  coast  its  pyramids 
And  tall  memorials  catch  the  dying  sun, 
Smiled  well  content,  and  *c  4his  childish  task 
Around  the  fire  addressed  lis  evening  hours. 


8s 


BOOK  II 

IN  SCOW 


TABLE  OF  COMMON  SCOTTISH 
VOWEL  SOUNDS 

ae  * 


J.  =  open  A  as  in  rare. 


=  AW  as  in  law. 


as  in  mere,  but  this  with  except 
tions,  as  heather  =  heather,  wean  =  wait* 
lear  =  lair. 

eel 

ei  \  =  open  E  as  in  mere. 

ie] 

oa  =  open  O  as  in  more. 

ou  =  doubled  O  as  in  poor. 

ow  =  OW  as  in  bower. 

u  =  doubled  O  as  in  poor. 

ui  or  ii  before  R  =  (say  roughly)  open  A  as  in 
rare. 

ui  or  ii  before  any  other  consonant  =  (sav 
roughly)  close  I  as  in  grin. 

y  =  open  I  as  in  kite. 

i  =  pretty  nearly  what  you  please,  much  as  in 
English.  Heaven  guide  the  reader  through 
that  labyrinth!  But  in  Scots  it  dodges 
usually  from  the  short  I,  as  in  grin,  to  the 
open  E,  as  in  mere.  Find  and  blind,  I  may 
remark,  are  pronounced  to  rhyme  with  the 
preterite  of  grin. 

84 


I 

THE  MAKER  TO  POSTERITY 

FAR  'yont  amang  the  years  to  be 
When  a'  we  chink,  an'  a'  we  see, 
An'  a'  we  luve,  's  been  dung  ajee 

By  time's  rouch  shouther, 
An*  what  was  richt  and  wrang  for  me 

Lies  mangled  throu'ther, 
It's  possible  —  it's  hardly  mair  — ■ 
That  some  ane,  ripin'  after  lear  — 
Some  auld  professor  or  young  heir. 

If  still  there's  either  — 
May  find  an'  read  me,  an'  be  sair 

Perplexed,  puir  brither! 

"JVhat  tongue  does  your  auld  bookie  speak?*' 
He'll  spier;  an'  I,  his  mou  to  steik; 
"No  bein'  fit  to  write  in  Greek, 

I  wrote  in  Lallan. 
Dear  to  my  heart  as  the  peat  reek, 

Auld  as  Tantallon. 

"Few  spak  it  then,  an'  noo  there's  nane. 
My  puir  auld  sangs  lie  a'  their  lane, 


Their  sense,  that  aince  was  braw  an'  plain. 

Tint  a'ihegether, 
Like  runes  upon  a  standin'  stane 

Amang  the  heather. 

"  But  think  not  you  the  brae  to  speel; 
You,  tae,  maun  chow  the  bitter  peel; 
For  a'  your  tear,  for  a'  your  skeel, 

Ye  re  nane  sae  lucky; 
An'  things  are  mebbe  waur  than  weel 

For  you,  my  buckie. 

"  The  hale  concern  (baith  hens  an'  eggs, 
Baith  books  an'  writers,  stars  an'  clegs) 
Noo  stachers  upon  lowsent  legs, 

An'  wears  awa'; 
The  tack  o'  mankind,  near  the  dregs, 

Rins  unco  law. 

"  Your  book,  that  in  some  braw  new  tongue. 
Ye  wrote  or  prentit,  preached  or  sung, 
Will  still  be  just  a  bairn,  an'  young 

In  fame  an'  years, 
Whan  the  hale  planet's  guts  are  dung 

About  your  ears; 

"An'  you,  sair  gruppin'  to  a  spar 
Or  whammled  wi'  some  blee^in'  star* 
S6 


Cryin'  to  hen  whaur  deil  ye  arey 

Hanie,  France,  or  Flanders 

Whang  sindry  like  a  railway  car 
An'  flie  in  danders" 


11 

ILLE  TERRARUM 

FRAE  nirly,  nippin',  Eas'lan'  breezes 
Frae  Norlan'  snaw,  an'  haar  o'  seas, 
Weel  happit  in  your  gairden  trees, 

A  bonny  bit, 
Atween  the  muckle  Pentland's  knees, 
Secure  ye  sit. 

Beeches  an*  aiks  entwine  their  theck, 
An'  firs,  a  stench,  auld-farrant  clique. 
A'  simmer  day,  your  chimleys  reek, 

Couthy  and  bien; 
An'  here  an'  there  your  windies  keek 

Amang  the  green. 

A  pickle  plats  an'  paths  an'  posies, 
A  wheen  auld  gillyflowers  an'  roses : 
A  ring  o'  wa's  the  hale  encloses 

Frae  sheep  or  men ; 
An'  there  the  auld  housie  beeks  an*  doses, 
A'  by  her  lane, 
88 


The  gairdner  crooks  his  weary  back 

A'  day  in  the  pitaty-track, 

Or  mebbe  stops  awhile  to  crack 

Wi'  Jane  the  cook, 
Or  at  some  buss,  worm-eaten-black, 

To  gie  a  look. 

Frae  the  high  hills  the  curlew  ca's; 
The  sheep  gang  baaing  by  the  wa's; 
Or  whiles  a  clan  o'  roosty  craws 

Cangle  thegether; 
The  wild  bees  seek  the  gairden  raws, 

Weariet  wi'  heather. 

Or  in  the  gloamin'  douce  an'  gray 
The  sweet-throat  mavis  tunes  her  lay; 
The  herd  comes  linkin'  doun  the  brae; 

An'  by  degrees 
The  muckle  siller  miine  maks  way 

Amang  the  trees. 

Here  aft  hae  I,  wi'  sober  heart, 
For  meditation  sat  apairt, 
When  orra  loves  or  kittle  art 

Perplexed  my  mind; 
Here  socht  a  balm  for  ilka  smart 

O'  humankind. 
s9 


Here  aft,  weel  neukit  by  my  lane, 
Wi'  Horace,  or  perhaps  Montaigne, 
The  mornin'  hours  hae  come  an'  gane 

Abune  my  heid  — 
1  wadnae  gi'en  a  chucky-stane 

For  a'  I'd  read. 

But  noo  the  auld  city,  street  by  street. 
An'  winter  fu'  o'  snaw  an'  sleet, 
Awhile  shut  in  my  gangrel  feet 

An'  goavin'  mettle; 
Noo  is  the  soopit  ingle  sweet, 

An'  liltin'  kettle. 

An'  noo  the  winter  winds  complain; 
Cauld  lies  the  glaur  in  ilka  lane; 
On  draigled  hizzie,  tautit  wean 

An'  drucken  lads, 
In  the  mirk  nicht,  the  winter  rain 

Dribbles  an'  blads. 

Whan  bugles  frae  the  Castle  rock, 
An'  beaten  drums  wi'  dowie  shock8 
Wauken,  at  cauld-rife  sax  o'clock, 

My  chitterin'  frame, 
1  mind  me  on  the  kintry  cock, 

The  kintry  hame. 
90 


mmd  me  on  yon  bonny  bield; 
A«>    Fancy  traivels  far  afield 
So  gait  her  a'  that  gairdens  yield 

O'  sun  an*  Simmer: 
To  hearten  up  a  dowie  chield, 
fancy's  the  limmer! 


II! 

WHEN  aince  Aprile  has  fairly  come, 
An*  birds  may  bigg  in  winter's  lum. 
An  pleisure's  spreid  for  a'  and  some 

O'  whatna  state, 
Love,  wi'  her  auld  recruitin'  drum, 
Than  taks  the  gate. 

The  heart  plays  dunt  wi'  main  an*  micht,' 
The  lasses'  een  are  a'  sae  bricht, 
Their  dresses  are  sae  braw  an'  ticht, 

The  bonny  birdies !  — 
Puir  winter  virtue  at  the  sicht 

Gangs  heeb  ower  hurdies. 

An'  aye  as  love  frae  land  to  land 
Tirls  the  drum  wi'  eident  hand, 
A'  men  collect  at  her  command, 

Toun-bred  or  land'art, 
kn'  follow  in  a  denty  band 

Her  gaucy  standart. 

An'  I,  wha  sang  o'  rain  an'  snaw, 
An*  weary  winter  weel  awa', 

02 


Noo  busk  me  in  a  jacket  braw, 

An'  tak  my  place 
T  the  ram-stam,  harum-scarum  raw, 

Wf  smilir*  face. 


A  MILE  AN'  A  BITTOCK 

A  MILE  an'  a  bittock,  a  mile  or  twa, 
Abiine  the  burn,  ayont  the  law, 
Davie  an'  Donal'  an*  Cherlie  an'  a', 
An*  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Ane  went  hame  wi'  the  ither,  an'  then 
The  ither  went  hame  wi'  the  ither  twa  men, 
An'  baith  wad  return  him  the  service  again, 
An*  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

The  clocks  were  chappin'  in  house  an*  ha', 
Eleeven,  twal  an'  ane  an'  twa; 
An'  the  guidman's  face  was  turnt  to  the  wa'„ 
An*  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

A  wind  got  up  frae  affa  the  sea, 
It  blew  the  stars  as  dear's  could  be, 
It  blew  in  the  een  of  a*  o'  the  three, 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 

Noo,  Davie  was  first  to  get  sleep  in  his  head, 
"The  best  o'  frien's  maun  Iwine,"  he  said; 
"  I'm  weariet,  an'  here  I'm  awa/  to  my  bed" 
An'  the  miine  was  shinin  clearly! 


Twa  o'  them  walkin'  an'  crackin'  their  lane, 
The  mornin'  licht  cam  gray  an'  plain, 
An*  the  birds  they  yammert  on  stick  an' 
stane, 
An*  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly] 

O  years  ayont,  O  years  awa', 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  whate'er  befa'  — 
My  lads,  ye'll  mind  on  the  bield  o'  the  law 
When  the  miine  was  shinin'  clearly! 


V 

A  LOWDEN  SABBATH  MORN 

THE  clinkum-clank  o'  Sabbath  bells 
Noo  to  the  hoastin'  rookery  swells, 
Noo  faintin,  laigh  in  shady  dells, 

Sounds  far  an'  near, 
An'  through  the  simmer  kintry  tells 
Its  tale  o'  cheer. 

An*  noo,  to  that  melodious  play, 
A'  deidly  awn  the  quiet  sway  — 
A*  ken  their  solemn  holiday, 

Bestial  an'  human, 
The  singin'  lintie  on  the  brae, 

The  restin'  plou'man. 

He,  mair  than  a'  the  lave  o'  men, 
His  week  completit  joys  to  ken; 
Half-dressed,  he  daunders  out  an'  in, 

Perplext  wi'  leisure; 
An"  his  raxt  limbs  he'll  rax  again 

Wi'  painfii'  pleesure. 
96 


The  steerin9  mither  Strang  afit 
Noo  shoos  the  bairnies  but  a  bit; 
Noo  cries  them  ben,  their  Sinday  shuit 

To  scart  upon  them, 
Or  sweeties  in  their  pouch  to  pit, 

Wi'  blessin's  on  them. 

The  lasses,  clean  frae  tap  to  taes, 
Are  busked  in  crunklin'  underclaes; 
The  gartened  hose,  the  weel-filled  stays. 

The  nakit  shift, 
A*  bleached  on  bonny  greens  for  days, 

An'  white's  the  drift. 

An'  noo  to  face  the  kirkward  mile: 
The  guidman's  hat  o'  dacent  style, 
The  blackit  shoon,  we  noo  maun  fyle 

As  white's  the  miller: 
A  waefu'  peety  tae,  to  spile 

The  warth  o'  siller. 

Our  Marg'et,  aye  sae  keen  to  crack 
Douce-stappin'  in  the  stoury  track 
Her  emeralt  goun  a'  kiltit  back 

Frae  snawy  coats, 
White-ankled,  leads  the  kirkward  pack 

Wi'  Dauvit  Groats. 
07 


A'  thocht  ahint,  in  runkled  breeks, 
A*  spiled  wi'  lyin'  by  for  weeks, 
The  guidman  follows  closs,  arT  cleiks 

The  sonsie  missis; 
His  sarious  face  at  aince  bespeaks 

The  day  that  this  is. 

And  aye  an'  while  we  nearer  draw 
To  whaur  the  kirkton  lies  alaw, 
Mair  neebours,  comin'  saft  an'  slaw 

Frae  here  an'  there, 
The  thicker  thrang  the  gate  an*  caw 

The  stour  in  air. 

But  hark!  the  bells  frae  nearer  clang; 
To  rowst  the  slaw,  their  sides  they  bang; 
An'  see!  black  coats  a' ready  thrang 

The  green  kirkyaird; 
Aiid  at  the  yett,  the  chestnuts  spang 

That  brocht  the  laird. 

The  solemn  elders  at  the  plate 

Stand  drinkin'  deep  the  pride  o'  state: 

The  practised  hands  as  gash  an'  great 

As  Lords  o'  Session; 
The  later  named,  a  wee  thing  blate 
In  their  expression. 
98 


The  prentit  stanes  that  mark  the  deid* 
Wi'  lengthened  lip,  the  sarious  read; 
Syne  wag  a  moraleesin'  heid, 

An'  then  an'  there 
Their  hirplin'  practice  an*  their  creed 

Try  hard  to  square. 

It's  here  our  Merren  lang  has  lains 

A  wee  bewast  the  tabie-stane; 

An*  yon's  the  grave  o'  Sandy  Blanej 

An'  further  owef , 
The  mither's  brithers,  dacent  men! 

Lie  a*  the  fower. 

Here  the  guidman  sail  bide  awee 
To  dwall  amang  the  deid;  to  see 
Auld  faces  clear  in  fancy's  e'e; 

Belike  to  hear 
Auld  voices  fa'in  saft  an*  slee 

On  fancy's  ear. 

Thus,  on  the  day  o'  solemn  things* 
The  bell  that  in  the  steeple  swings 
To  fauld  a  scaittered  faim'ly  rings 

Its  walcome  screed; 
An'  just  a  wee  thing  nearer  brings 

The  quick  an'  deid. 
99 


But  noo  the  bell  is  ringin'  in; 
To  tak  their  places,  folk  begin; 
The  minister  himsel'  will  shiine 

Be  up  the  gate, 
Filled  fu'  wi'  clavers  about  sin 

An'  man's  estate. 

The  times  are  up  —  French,  to  be  shiire* 
The  faithfii'  French,  an'  twa-three  main 
The  auld  prezentor,  hoastin'  sair, 

Wales  out  the  portions, 
An*  yirks  the  ttine  into  the  air 

Wi'  queer  contortions. 

Follows  the  prayer,  the  readin'  next* 
An'  than  the  fisslin'  for  the  text  — 
The  twa-three  last  to  find  it,  vext 

But  kind  o'  proud; 
An*  than  the  peppermints  are  raxed, 

An'  southernwood. 

For  noo's  the  time  whan  pows  are  seen 
Nid-noddin'  like  a  mandareen ; 
When  tenty  mithers  stap  a  preen 

In  sleepin*  weans; 
An*  nearly  half  the  parochine 

Forget  their  pains. 


There's  just  a  waukrif  twa  01  three: 
Thrawn  commentautors  sweer  to  'gree, 
Weans  glowrin'  at  the  bumlin'  bee 

On  windie-glasses, 
Or  lads  that  tak  a  keek  a-glee 

At  sonsie  lasses. 

HimseF,  meanwhile,  frae  whaur  he  cocks 
An'  bobs  belaw  the  soundin'-box, 
The  treesures  of  his  words  unlocks 

Wi'  prodigality, 
An*  deals  some  unco  dingin'  knocks 

To  infidality. 

Wi'  sappy  uncTion,  hoo  he  burkes 
The  hopes  o'  men  that  trust  in  works. 
Expound  the  fau'ts  o'  ither  kirks, 

An'  shaws  the  best  o'  them 
No  muckle  better  than  mere  Turks, 

When  a's  confessed  o'  them. 

Bethankit!  what  a  bonny  creed! 

What  mair  would  ony  Christian  need  ?  - 

The  braw  words  rumm'le  ower  his  heidr 

Nor  steer  the  sleepei ; 
And  in  their  restin'  graves,  the  deid 

Sleep  aye  the  deeper. 


Note.  —  It  may  be  guessed  by  some  that  I 
had  a  certain  parish  in  my  eye,  and  this  makes 
it  proper  I  should  add  a  word  of  disclamation. 
In  my  time  there  have  been  two  ministers  in 
that  parish.  Of  the  first  I  have  a  special  reason 
to  speak  well,  even  had  there  been  any  to  think 
ill.  The  second  I  have  often  met  in  private  and 
long  (in  the  due  phrase)  "sat  under"  in  his 
church,  and  neither  here  nor  there  have  I  heard 
an  unkind  or  ugly  word  upon  his  lips.  The 
preacher  of  the  text  had  thus  no  original  in  that 
particular  parish;  but  when  I  was  a  boy,  he 
might  have  been  observed  in  many  others;  he 
was  then  (like  the  schoolmaster)  abroad;  and  by 
recent  advices,  it  would  seem  he  has  not  yet 
entirely  disappeared. 


102 


VI 

THE  SPAEWIFE 

OI  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar* 
*    wife  says  I  — 
Why  chops  are  guid  to  brander  and  nane 

sae  guid  to  fry. 
An'  siller,  that's  sae  braw  to  keep,  is  brawer 
still  to  gi'e. 

—  Its  gey  an'  easy  spierin' ',  says  the  beggar- 

wife  to  me. 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 

says  I  — 
Hoo  a'  things  come  to  be  whaur  we  find 

them  when  we  try, 
The  lasses  in  their  claes  an*  the  fishes  in  the 

sea. 

—  It's  gey  an'  easy  spierin1,  says  the  beggar- 

wife  to  me. 


O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 

says  I  — 
Why  lads  are  a'  to  sell  an'  lasses  a'  to  buy, 

t/?2 


An*  naebody  for  dacency  but  barely  twa  or 
three. 

—  It's  gey  an'  easy  spieriri ',  says  the  beggar- 

wife  to  me. 

0,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 

says  I  — 
Gin  death's  as  shiire  to  men  as  killin'  is  to 

kye, 
Why  God  has  filled  the  yearth  sae  fu'  o* 

tasty  things  to  pree. 

—  It's  gey  an'  easy  spierin',  says  the  beggar- 

wife  to  me. 

O,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 

says  I  — 
The  reason  o'  the  cause  an'  the  wherefore 

o'  the  why, 
Wi'  mony  anither  riddle  brings  the  tear  into 

my  e'e. 

—  It's  gey  an'  easy  spierin',  says  the  beggar- 

wife  to  me. 


IllE  E:LAST  —  1875 

IT'S  rainin'.    Weet's  the  gairden  sod, 
Weet  the  lang  roads  whau  ^angrelsplod 
A  maist  unceevil  thing  o'  God 

In  mid  July  — 
If  ye'll  just  curse  the  sneckdraw.,  dod! 
An'  sae  wull  I ! 

He's  a  braw  place  in  Heev'n,  ye  ken, 
An*  lea's  us  puir,  forjaskit  men 
Clamjamfried  in  the  but  and  ben 

He  ca's  the  earth  — 
A  wee  bit  inconvenient  den 

No  muckle  worth; 

An'  whiles,  at  orra  times,  keeks  out, 
Sees  what  puir  mankind  are  about; 
An'  if  He  can,  I've  little  doubt, 

Upsets  their  plans; 
He  hates  a'  mankind,  brainch  and  root, 

And  a'  that's  man's. 
10  J  iog 


An*  whiles,  whan  they  tak  heart  again, 
An'  life  i'  the  sun  looks  braw  an'  plain, 
Doun  comes  a  jaw  o'  droukin'  rain 

Upon  their  honours  — 
God  sends  a  spate  outower  the  plain, 

Or  mebbe  thun'ers. 

Lord  safe  us,  life's  an  unco  thing! 
Simmer  an'  Winter,  Yule  an'  Spring, 
The  damned,  dour-heartit  seasons  bring 

A  feck  o'  trouble. 
I  wadnae  try't  to  be  a  king  — 

No,  nor  for  double. 

But  since  we're  in  it,  willy-nilly, 

We  maun  be  watchfii',  wise  an'  skilly, 

An'  no  mind  ony  ither  billy, 

Lassie  nor  God. 
But  drink  —  that's  my  best  counsel  till  *c; 

Sae  tak  the  nod. 


Mfl 


VIII 
THE  COUNTERBLAST  — 1886 

MY  bonny  man,  the  warld,  it's  true, 
Was  made  for  neither  me  nor  you; 
It's  just  a  place  to  warstle  through, 

As  Job  confessed  o't; 

And  aye  the  best  that  we'll  can  do 

Is  mak  the  best  o't. 

There's  rowth  o'  wrang,  I'm  free  to  say: 
The  simmer  brunt,  the  winter  blae, 
The  face  of  earth  a'  fyled  wi'  clay 

An'  dour  wi'  chuckies, 
An'  life  a  rough  an'  land'art  play 

For  country  buckies. 

An'  food's  anither  name  for  clart ; 
An'  beasts  an'  brambles  bite  an'  scart; 
An'  what  would  we  be  like,  my  heart! 

If  bared  o'  claethin"? 
—  Aweel,  I  cannae  mend  your  cart: 

It's  that  or  naethin. 
107 


A  feck  o'  folk  frae  first  to  last 

Have  through  this  queer  experience  passed; 

Twa-three,  I  ken,  just  damn  an'  blast 

The  hale  transaction; 
But  twa-three  ithers,  east  an*  wast, 

Fand  satisfaction. 

Whaur  braid  the  briery  muirs  expand, 

A  waefu'  an'  a  weary  land, 

The  bumblebees,  a  gowden  band, 

Are  blithely  hingin'; 
An*  there  the  canty  wanderer  fand 

The  laverock  singin'. 

Trout  in  the  burn  grow  great  as  herr'n; 
The  simple  sheep  can  find  their  fair'n; 
The  wind  blaws  clean  about  the  cairn 

Wi'  caller  air; 
The  muircock  an'  the  barefit  bairn 

Are  happy  there. 

Sic-like  the  howes  o'  life  to  some: 

Green  loans   whaur   they   ne'er  fash   the!* 

thumb, 
But  mark  the  muckle  winds  that  come 

Soopin'  an'  cool. 
Or  hear  the  powrin'  burnie  drum 
In  the  shilfa's  pool. 
108 


The  evil  wi*  the  guid  they  tak; 
They  ca'  a  gray  thing  gray,  no  black; 
To  a  steigh  brae,  a  stubborn  back 

Addressin'  daily; 
An*  up  the  rude,  unbieldy  track 

O'  life,  gang  gaily. 

What  you  would  like's  a  palace  ha?f 
Or  Sinday  parlour  dink  an'  braw 
Wi'  a'  things  ordered  in  a  raw 

By  denty  leddies. 
Weel,  than,  ye  cannae  hae't:  that's  a' 

That  to  be  said  is. 

An'  since  at  life  ye've  ta'en  the  grue, 
An'  winnae  blithely  hirsle  through, 
Ye've  fund  the  very  thing  to  do  — 

That's  to  drink  speerit; 
An*  shiine  we'll  hear  the  last  o'  you  — 

An'  blithe  to  hear  it! 

The  shoon  ye  coft,  the  life  ye  lead, 
Ithers  will  heir  when  aince  ye're  deid; 
They'll  heir  your  tasteless  bite  o'  breid, 

An'  find  it  sappy; 
They'll  to  your  dulefu'  house  succeed, 

An'  tnere  be  happy, 

IOQ 


As  whan  a  glum  an  fractious  wean 
Has  sat  an*  sullened  by  his  lane 
Till,  wi'  a  rowstin'  skelp,  he's  taen 

An*  shoo'd  to  bed  — 
The  ither  bairns  a'  fa'  to  play'n'* 

As  gleg's  a  gled 


IX 

THE  COUNTERBLAST  IRONICAL 

IT's  strange  that  God  should  fash  to  trains 
The  yearth  and  lift  sae  hie, 
An*  clean  forget  to  explain  the  same 
To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

They  gutsy,  donnered  ither  folk, 
Their  weird  they  weel  may  dree* 

But  why  present  a  pig  in  a  poke 
To  a  gentleman  like  me? 

They  ither  folk  their  parritch  eat 

An'  sup  their  sugared  tea; 
But  the  mind  is  no  to  be  wyled  wi'  meat 

Wi'  a  gentleman  like  me. 

They  ither  folk,  they  court  their  joes 

At  gloamin'  on  the  lea; 
But  they're  made  of  a  commoner  clay,  1 
suppose, 
Than  a  gentleman  like  me. 
it* 


They  ither  folk,  for  richt  or  wrang, 
They  suffer,  bleed,  or  dee; 

But  a'  thir  things  are  an  emp'y  sang 
To  a  gentleman  like  me. 

It's  a  different  thing  that  I  demand, 

Tho'  humble  as  can  be  — 
A  statement  fair  in  my  Maker's  hand 

To  a  gentleman  like  me: 

A  clear  account  writ  fair  an'  broad, 

An'  a  plain  apologie; 
Or  the  deevil  a  ceevil  word  to  God 

From  a  gentleman  like  me. 


THEIR  LAUREATE  TO  AN 
ACADEMY  CLASS  DINNER  CLUB 

DEAR  Thamson  class,  whaure'er  I  gang 
It  aye  comes  ower  me  wi'  a  spang: 
"  Lord  sake!  they  Thamson  lads  —  (deil  hang 

Or  else  Lord  mend  them) ! — 
An*  that  wanchancy  annual  sang 
I  ne'er  can  send  them!" 

Straucht,  at  the  name,  a  trusty  tyke, 
My  conscience  girrs  ahint  the  dyke; 
Straucht  on  my  hinderlands  I  fyke 

To  find  a  rhyme  t'  ye ; 
Pleased  —  although  mebbe  no  pleased-like— 

To  gie  my  time  t'  ye. 

"IVeel,"  an*  says  you,  wi'  heavin'  breist, 
*'Sae  jar,  sae  guid,  hut  what's  the  neist? 
Yearly  we  gaither  to  the  feast, 

A'  hopefu  men  — 
Yearly  we  skelloch  s  Hang  the  beast  — 

Nae  sang  again!"' 

113 


My  lads,  an*  what  am  I  to  say? 
Ye  shiirely  ken  the  Muse's  way: 
Yestreen,  as  gleg's  a  tyke  —  the  day. 

Thrawn  like  a  cuddy: 
Her  conduc',  that  to  her's  a  play, 

Deith  to  a  body. 

Aft  whan  I  sat  an'  made  my  mane, 
Aft  whan  I  laboured  burd-alane, 
Fishin'  for  rhymes  an'  findin'  nane, 

Or  nane  were  fit  for  ye  — 
Ye  judged  me  cauld's  a  chucky  stane  — 

No  car'n  a  bit  for  ye ! 

But  saw  ye  ne'er  some  pingein'  bairn 

As  weak  as  a  pitaty-par'n'  — 

Less  used  wi'  guidin'  horse-shoe  aim 

Than  steerin'  crowdie  — 
Packed  arT  his  lane,  by  moss  an*  cairn8 

To  ca'  the  howdie. 

Wae's  me,  for  the  puir  callant  than! 
He  wambles  like  a  poke  o'  bran, 
An'  the  lowse  rein  as  hard's  he  can, 

Pu's,  trem'lin'  handit; 
Till,  blaff!  upon  his  hinderlan' 

Behauld  him  landit. 

£14 


Sic-iike  —  1  awn  the  weary  fac*  — 
Whan  on  my  muse  the  gate  I  tak, 
An'  see  her  gleed  e'e  raxin'  back 

To  keek  ahint  her;  — 
To  me,  the  brig  o'  Heev'n  gangs  black 

As  blackest  winter. 

"  Lordsake!  we're  afj,"  thinks  I,  "butwhaur? 
On  what  abhorred  an'  whinny  scaur, 
Or  whammled  in  what  sea  o'  glaur, 

Will  she  desert  me? 
An'  will  she  just  disgrace  ?  or  waur  — 

Will  she  no  hurt  rne?" 

Kittle  the  quaere !     But  at  least 

The  day  I've  backed  the  fashious  beast, 

While  she,  wi'  mony  a  spang  an'  reist, 

Flang  heels  ower  bonnet ; 
An'  a'  triumphant  —  for  your  feast, 

Hae!  there's  your  sonnet! 


fcVfc 


XI 

EMBRO  HIE  KIRK 

THE  Lord  Himsel'  in  former  days 
Waled  out  the  proper  t lines  for  praise 
An'  named  the  proper  kind  o'  claes 

For  folk  to  preach  in : 
Preceese  and  in  the  chief  o'  ways 
Important  teachin'. 

He  ordered  a*  things  late  and  air'; 
He  ordered  folk  to  stand  at  prayer. 
(Although  I  cannae  just  mind  where 

He  gave  the  warnin'.) 
An'  pit  pomatum  on  their  hair 

On  Sabbath  mornin'. 

The  hale  o'  life  by  His  commands 
Was  ordered  to  a  body's  hands ; 
But  see !  this  corpus  juris  stands 

By  a'  forgotten; 
An*  God's  religion  in  a*  lands 

Is  deid  an'  rotten. 
xt.6 


While  thus  the  lave  o*  mankind's  lost, 
O*  Scotland  still  God  maks  His  boast  - 
Puir  Scotland,  on  whase  barren  coast 

A  score  or  twa 
Auld  wives  wi'  mutches  an*  a  hoast 

Still  keep  His  law. 

In  Scotland,  a  wheen  canty,  plain, 
Douce,  kintry-leevin'  folk  retain 
The  Truth  —  or  did  so  aince  —  alane 

Of  a*  men  leevin' ; 
An*  noo  just  twa  o'  them  remain  — > 

Just  Begg  an'  Niven. 

For  noo,  unfaithfu*  to  the  Lord 
Auld  Scotland  joins  the  rebel  horde; 
Her  human  hymn-books  on  the  board 

She  noo  displays: 
An'  Embro  Hie  Kirk's  been  restored 

In  popish  ways. 

O  pundum  temporis  for  action 
To  a'  o'  the  reformin'  faction, 
If  yet,  by  ony  act  or  paction, 

Thocht,  word,  or  sermon, 
This  dark  an'  damnable  transaction 

Micht  yet  determine! 


For  see  —  as  Do&or  Begg  explains  —- 
Hoo  easy  't's  dune !  a  pickle  weans, 
Wha  in  the  Hie  Street  gaither  stanes 

By  his  instruction, 
The  uncovenantit,  pentit  panes 

Ding  to  destruction. 

Up,  Niven,  or  ower  late  —  an*  dash 
Laigh  in  the  glaur  that  carnal  hash; 
Let  spires  and  pews  wi'  gran'  stramash 

Thegether  fa' ; 
The  rumlin'  kist  o'  whustles  smash 
In  pieces  sma\ 

Noo  choose  ye  out  a  waie  hammer; 
About  the  knottit  buttress  clam'er; 
Alang  the  steep  roof  stoyt  an'  stammer, 

A  gate  mis-chancy; 
On  the  aul'  spire,  the  bells'  hie  cha'mer,* 

Dance  your  bit  dancie. 

Ding,  devel,  dunt,  destroy,  an'  ruin, 
Wi'  carnal  stanes  the  square  bestrewin'. 
Till  your  loud  chaps  frae  Kyle  to  Fruint 

Frae  Hell  to  Heeven, 
Tell  the  guid  wark  that  baith  are  doin'  — 

Baith  Begg  an'  Niven. 
nS 


XII 

THE  SCOTMAN'S  RETURN  FROM 
ABROAD 

In  a  letter  from  Mr.  Thomson  to  Mr.  Johnstone 

IN  mony  a  foreign  pairt  I've  been, 
An'  mony  an  unco  ferlie  seen, 
Since,  Mr.  Johnstone,  you  and  I 
Last  walkit  upon  Cocklerye. 
Wi'  gleg,  observant  een,  I  pass't 
By  sea  an'  land,  through  East  an*  Wast 
And  still  in  ilka  age  an*  station 
Saw  naething  but  abomination. 
In  thir  uncovenantit  lands 
The  gangrel  Scot  uplifts  his  hands 

At  lack  of  a*  sectarian  fiish'n, 
An*  cauld  religious  destitution. 
He  rins,  puir  man,  frae  place  to  place,. 
Tries  a'  their  graceless  means  o'  grace, 
Preacher  on  preacher,  kirk  on  kirk  — 
This  yin  a  stot  an'  thon  a  stirk  — 
A  bletherin'  clan,  no  warth  a  preen, 
As  bad  as  Smith  of  Aiberdeen! 
119 


At  last,  across  the  weary  faem, 
Frae  far,  outlandish  pairts  I  came. 
On  ilka  side  o'  me  I  fand 
Fresh  tokens  o'  my  native  land. 
Wi'  whatna  joy  I  hailed  them  a*  — 
The  hilltaps  standin'  raw  by  raw, 
The  public  house,  the  Hielan'  birks 
And  a'  the  bonny  U.  P.  kirks! 
But  maistly  thee,  the  bluid  o'  Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  John  o'  Grots, 
The  king  o'  drinks,  as  I  conceive  it, 
Talisker,  Isla,  or  Glenlivet! 

For  after  years  wi'  a  pockmantie 

Frae  Zanzibar  to  Alicante, 

In  mony  a  fash  and  sair  affliction 

I  gie't  as  my  sincere  conviction  — 

Of  a'  their  foreign  tricks  an'  pliskies, 

I  maist  abominate  their  whiskies. 

Nae  doot,  themsels,  they  ken  it  weel, 

An'  wi'  a  hash  o'  leemon  peel, 

And  ice  an'  siccan  filth,  they  ettle 

The  stawsome  kind  o'  goo  to  settle; 

Sic  wersh  apothecary's  broos  wi' 

As  Scotsmen  scorn  to  fyle  their  moo's  wi'*- 

An',  man,  I  was  a  blithe  hame-comer 
Whan  first  I  syndit  out  my  rummer. 


Ye  should  hae  seen  me  then,  wi'  care 
The  less  important  pairts  prepare; 
Syne,  weel  contentit  wi'  it  a', 
Pour  in  the  speerits  wi'  a  jaw! 
I  didnae  drink,  I  didnae  speak,  — 
I  only  snowkit  up  the  reek. 
I  was  sae  pleased  therin  to  paidle, 
I  sat  an'  plowtered  wi'  my  ladle. 

An*  blithe  was  I,  the  morrow's  morn5 
To  daunder  through  the  stookit  corn. 
And  after  a*  my  strange  mishanters, 
Sit  doun  amang  my  ain  dissenters. 
An',  man,  it  was  a  joy  to  me 
The  pu'pit  an'  the  pews  to  see, 
The  pennies  dirlin*  in  the  plate, 
The  elders  lookin'  on  in  state; 
An'  'mang  the  first,  as  it  befell, 
Wha  should  I  see,  sir,  but  yoursel'! 

1  was,  and  I  will  no  deny  it, 
At  the  first  glifT  a  hantle  tryit 
To  see  yoursel'  in  sic  a  station  — 
It  seemed  a  doubtfu'  dispensation. 
The  feelin'  was  a  mere  digression; 
For  shiine  I  understood  the  session. 
An'  mindin'  Aiken  an'  M'neil, 

121 


J  wondered  they  had  dune  sae  weel. 
I  saw  I  had  mysel'  to  blame; 
For  had  I  but  remained  at  hame, 
Aiblins  —  though  no  ava'  deservin'  't  — 
They  micht  hae  named  your  humble  servant. 

The  kirk  was  filled,  the  door  was  steeked; 

Up  to  the  pu'pit  ance  I  keeked; 

I  was  mair  pleased  than  I  can  tell  — 

It  was  the  minister  himselM 

Proud,  proud  was  I  to  see  his  face, 

After  sae  lang  awa'  frae  grace. 

Pleased  as  I  was,  I'm  no  denyin' 

Some  maitters  were  not  edifyin' ; 

For  first  I  fand  —  an'  here  was  news!  — 

Mere  hymn-books  cockin'  in  the  pews  — 

A  humanised  abomination, 

Unfit  for  ony  congregation. 

Syne,  while  I  still  was  on  the  tenter, 

I  scunnered  at  the  new  prezentor; 

I  thocht  him  gesterin'  an'  cauld  — 

A  sair  declension  frae  the  auld. 

Syne,  as  though  a'  the  faith  was  wreckit 

The  prayer  was  not  what  I'd  exspeckit. 

Himsel',  as  it  appeared  to  me, 

Was  no  the  man  he  used  to  be. 

122 


But  just  as  I  was  growin'  vext 
He  waled  a  maist  judeecious  text, 
An',  launchin'  into  his  prelections, 
Swoopt,  wi'  a  skirl,  on  a'  defections. 

0  what  a  gale  was  on  my  speerit 
To  hear  the  p'ints  o'  doctrine  clearit 
And  a*  the  horrors  o'  damnation 
Set  furth  wi'  faithfii*  ministration ! 
Nae  shauchlin'  testimony  here  — 

We  were  a*  damned,  an'  that  was  clear. 

1  owned,  wi*  gratitude  an:  wonder, 
He  was  a  pleisure  to  sit  under. 


XIII 

LATE  in  the  nicht  in  bed  I  lay, 
The  winds  were  at  their  weary  play, 
An'  tirlin*  wa's  an'  skirlin'  wae 

Through  Heev'n  they  battered;  — 
On-ding  o'  hail,  on-blaff  o'  spray, 
The  tempest  blattered. 

The  masoned  house  it  dinled  through; 
It  dung  the  ship,  it  cowped  the  coo'; 
The  rankit  aiks  it  overthrew, 

Had  braved  a.'  weathers; 
The  Strang  sea-gleds  it  took  an'  blew 

Awa'  like  feathers. 

The  thrawes  o'  fear  on  a'  were  shed, 
An'  the  hair  rose,  an'  slumber  fled, 
An'  lichts  were  lit  an'  prayers  were  said 

Through  a*  the  kintry; 
An'  the  cauld  terror  clum  in  bed 

Wi'  a*  an'  sindry. 

To  hear  in  the  pit-mirk  on  hie 
The  brangled  collieshangie  flie, 
124 


The  warl',  they  thocht,  wi'  land  an'  se% 

Itsel'  wad  cowpit; 
An'  for  auld  aim,  the  smashed  debris 

By  God  be  rowpit. 

Meanwhile  frae  far  Aldeboran, 
To  folks  wi'  talescopes  in  han', 
O'  ships  that  cowpit,  winds  that  ran, 

Nae  sign  was  seen, 
But  the  wee  warl'  in  sunshine  span 

As  bricht's  a  preen. 

I,  tae,  by  God's  especial  grace, 
Dwall  denty  in  a  bieldy  place, 
Wi*  hosened  feet,  wi'  shaven  face, 

Wi'  dacent  mainners: 
A  grand  example  to  the  race 

O'  tautit  sinners ! 

The  wind  may  blaw,  the  heathen  rage, 
The  deil  may  start  on  the  rampage;  — 
The  sick  in  bed,  the  thief  in  cage  — 

What's  a*  tome? 
Cosh  in  my  house,  a  sober  sage, 

I  sit  an'  see. 

An'  whiles  the  bluid  spangs  to  my  bree, 
To  He  sae  saft,  to  live  sae  free, 
125 


While  better  men  maun  do  an'  die 

In  unco  places. 
"Whaur's  God?"  I  cry,  an'  "Whae  is  m 

To  hae  sic  graces?" 

I  mind  the  fecht  the  sailors  keep, 
But  fire  or  can'le,  rest  or  sleep, 
In  darkness  an*  the  muckle  deep; 

An'  mind  beside 
The  herd  that  on  the  hills  o'  sheep 

Has  wandered  wide. 

I  mind  me  on  the  hoastin'  weans  — 
The  penny  joes  on  causey  stanes  — 
The  auld  folk  wi'  the  crazy  banes. 

Baith  auld  an'  puir, 
That  aye  maun  thole  the  winds  an'  rains, 

An'  labour  sair. 

An'  whiles  I'm  kind  o'  pleased  a  blink, 
An'  kind  o'  fleyed  forby,  to  think, 
For  a'  my  rowth  o'  meat  an'  drink 

An'  waste  o'  crumb, 
I'll  mebbe  have  to  thole  wi'  skink 

In  Kingdom  Come. 
126 


For  God  whan  jowes  the  Judgment  bell, 
Wi'  His  ain  Hand,  His  Leevin'  Sel', 
Sail  ryve  the  guid  (as  Prophets  tell) 

Frae  them  that  had  it; 
And  in  the  reamin'  pat  o'  Hell, 

The  rich  be  scaddit. 

O  Lord,  if  this  indeed  be  sae, 
Let  daw  that  sair  an'  happy  day! 
Again'  the  warl\  grawn  auld  an'  gray, 

Up  wi'  your  aixe ! 
And  let  the  puir  enjoy  their  play  — 

I'll  thole  my  paiks. 


XIV 
MY  CONSCIENCE! 

OF  a'  the  ills  that  flesh  can  n.*r, 
The  loss  o'  frien's,  the  lajk  o'  geart 
A  yowlin'  tyke,  a  glandered  mear, 

A  lassie's  nonsense  — 
There's  just  ae  thing  I  cannae  bear, 
An'  that's  my  conscience. 

Whan  day  (an*  a'  excuse)  has  gane, 
An'  wark  is  dime,  and  duty's  plain, 
An'  to  my  chalmer  a'  my  lane 

I  creep  apairt, 
My  conscience !  hoo  the  yammerin'  pain 

Stends  to  my  heart ! 

A'  day  wi'  various  ends  in  view 
The  hairsts  o'  time  I  had  to  pu\ 
An'  made  a  hash  wad  staw  a  soo, 

Let  be  a  man !  — 
My  conscience !  whan  my  han's  were  fu\ 

Whaur  were  ye  then? 
128 


Ail*  there  were  a'  the  lures  o'  life, 
There  pleesure  skirlin'  on  the  fife, 
There  anger,  wi'  the  hotchin'  knife 

Ground  shairp  in  Hell  — 
My  conscience !  —  you  that's  like  a  wife*  — - 

Whaur  was  yoursel? 

I  ken  it  fine:  just  waitin'  here, 

To  gar  the  evil  waur  appear, 

To  clart  the  guid,  confuse  the  clean 

Misca'  the  great, 
My  conscience!  an'  to  raise  a  steer 

When  a's  ower  late. 

Sic-like,  some  tyke  grawn  auld  and  blind, 
Whan  thieves  brok'  through  the  gear  to 

p'ind, 
Has  lain  his  dozened  length  an*  grinned 

At  the  disaster; 
An*  the  morn's  mornin',  wud's  the  wind, 

Yokes  on  his  master. 


1*0 


XV 
TO  DOCTOR  JOHN  BROWN 

(Whan  the  dear  doctor,  dear  to  a\ 
Was  still  amang  us  here  belaw, 
I  set  my  pipes  his  praise  to  blaw 

Wi'  a  my  speerit; 
But  noo,  Dear  Doctor  !  he's  awa\ 

An  neer  can  hear  it) 

BY  Lyne  and  Tyne,  by  Thames  and  Teei 
By  a'  the  various  river-Dee's, 
In  Mars  and  Manors  'yont  the  seas 

Or  here  at  hame, 
Whaure'er  there's  kindly  folk  to  please, 
They  ken  your  name. 

They  ken  your  name,  they  ken  your  tyke, 
They  ken  the  honey  from  your  byke; 
But  mebbe  after  a'  your  fyke, 

(The  truth  to  tell) 
It's  just  your  honest  Rab  they  like, 

An'  no  yoursel\ 

As  at  the  gowff,  some  canny  play'r 
Should  tee  a  common  ba'  wi'  care  — 

130 


Should  flourish  and  deleever  fair 
His  souple  shintie  — 
An*  the  ba*  rise  into  the  air, 
A  leevin'  lintie: 

Sae  in  the  game  we  writers  play, 
There  comes  to  some  a  bonny  day, 
When  a  dear  ferlie  shall  repay 

Their  years  o'  strife, 
An'  like  you  Rab,  their  things  o'  clay, 

Spreid  wings  o'  life. 

Ye  scarce  deserved  it,  I'm  afraid  — 
You  that  had  never  learned  the  trade. 
But  just  some  idle  mornin'  strayed 

Into  the  schiile, 
An*  picked  the  fiddle  up  an'  played 

Like  Neil  himsel'. 

Your  e'e  was  gleg,  your  fingers  dink; 
Ye  didnae  fash  yoursel'  to  think, 
But  wove,  as  fast  as  puss  can  link, 

Your  denty  wab :  — 
Ye  stapped  your  pen  into  the  ink. 

An'  there  was  Rab ! 

Sinsyne,  whaure'er  your  fortune  lay 
By  dowie  den,  by  canty  brae, 
131 


Simmer  an'  winter,  nicht  an'  day, 
Eat  was  aye  wi'  ye; 
An'  a  the  folk  on  a'  the  way 
Were  blithe  to  see  ye. 

O  sir,  the  gods  are  kind  indeed, 
An'  hauld  ye  for  an  honoured  heid, 
That  for  a  wee  bit  clarkit  screed 

Sae  weel  reward  ye, 
An'  lend  —  puir  Rabbie  bein'  deid  — 

His  ghaist  to  guard  ye. 

For  though,  whaure'er  yoursel'  may  bc^ 
We've  just  to  turn  an'  glisk  a  wee, 
An'  Rab  at  heel  we're  shure  to  see 

Wi'  gladsome  caper: 
The  bogle  of  a  bogle,  he  — 

A  ghaist  o'  paper! 

And  as  the  auld-farrand  hero  sees 

In  Hell  a  bogle  Hercules, 

Pit  there  the  lessen  deid  to  please, 

While  he  himsel' 
Dwalls  wi'  the  muckle  gods  at  ease 

Far  raised  frae  hell : 

Sae  the  true  Rabbie  far  has  gane 
On  kindlier  business  o'  his  ain 
132 


Wi'  aulder  frien's;  an'  his  breist-bam 

An*  stumpie  tailie, 
He  birstles  at  a  new  hearth  stane 

By  James  and  Ailie. 


XVI 

IT'S  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an'  youth 
And  it  brooks  wi'  nae  denial, 
That  the  dearest  friends  are   the    auldes/ 
Sriends 
And  the  young  are  just  on  trial. 

There's  a  rival  bauld  wi'  young  an'  auld 
And  it's  him  that  has  bereft  me; 

cor  the  surest  friends  are  the  auldest  friends 
And  the  maist  o'  mines  hae  left.  me. 

There  are  kind  hearts  still,  for  friends  to  fill 
And  fools  to  take  and  break  them ; 

But  the    nearest   friends    are    the    auldest 
friends 
And  the  grave's  the  place  to  seek  them. 


134 


